


Though the brightest fell

by BeMyGoldfish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (as secondary ship), Angels, Canonical Character Death, Demons, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft and Greg share a soul, Sherlock is John's Guardian angel, Soulmates, celestial realism, mystrade, not good omens, series 3 and 4 dont exist, set after Baskerville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22939507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeMyGoldfish/pseuds/BeMyGoldfish
Summary: In his office, Mycroft (the Archangel) tries to recruit Greg (the ‘ex-angel’ mortal) on a celestial mission to save Sherlock from what he wants most."This is some elaborate joke cooked up by your brother as revenge for me not asking him to help on the Islington Exsanguinations, isn't it? How did he get you in on it, Mycroft? Did he hide your trouser press? Or threaten to expose your secret ciggie habit to your mum? This isn't funny. It's weird and obscure, but it is not funny.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 65





	1. Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> Only rated M for a teeny mention in later chapters of hypothetical self harm, plus chat about Sherlock's 'Reichenbach suicide'.
> 
> So, its your birthday again Johanna, and in revenge for me JOKINGLY writing you a lil' story for you to find on ao3 last year, you have taken your revenge by asking for another one this year. And boy did you make it difficult! Angels and demons but still in the BBC universe, Mystrade, Johnlock, soulmates and a PLOT as well! So I tried. Its a bit late as it got big. Happy Birthday!
> 
> For anyone else who finds this, I am not a writer, I just posted this as a joke for my Sherlockian friend to find on her birthday. So no complaints about my lack of skill... I am aware of it.
> 
> Also, a definition = Soul-fasting. To be soul-fasted is to have a soulmate, where two halves of a soul are connected and are as one. I came up with this word via hand-fasting (the joining of lives via the joining of hands in a marriage ceremony), and googled soul-fast but couldn't find it anywhere, so I am assuming I have made it up!

Lestrade dusted off his coat self-consciously as he stood outside Mycroft’s office door, listening for the clunk that indicated the door seals had been released. He looked down at himself and sighed.  
Why did Mycroft never summon him when he was looking rested and tidy, when he didn’t smell of custody suites and tobacco? It just made him feel even more inadequate when Mycroft’s eyes raked over him, while he, Mycroft - spotlessly perfect in some bespoke outfit that made him look like he’d just stepped out of Gentleman’s Quarterly - looked fresh as a daisy and twice as pretty. Greg shook that thought off before it settled. _‘Focus Greg’_ he scolded himself as the door released and he pushed it open.  
Entering the semi-dark room, he was offered a seat and a large glass of whisky by an immaculately suited Mycroft Holmes, who wouldn't look him in the eye. Greg was immediately worried. He never got offered a seat or a drink, and there was nothing Mycroft usually liked better than staring people out. As he sat in the chair, a twist of nerves began in his stomach. _‘What is this?’_  
Behind the intimidatingly large barrier that served as his desk, Mycroft took a deep breath, raised his eyes to meet Greg’s questioning gaze, and began to explain...

10 minutes later…

“Fuck off.”  
“I assure you, Detective Inspector-“  
“Fuck absolutely off, Mycroft.”

Mycroft Holmes rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers, as calm as a convent.

“I realise this is a lot to take in, and you will need a moment. I am willing to wait.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at the man behind the desk, who looked back coolly as if he had said nothing extraordinary, nothing remotely unusual, unexpected or… utterly bizarre. Greg tried to fathom what was going on, some sort of windup? He’d expect such childish crap off Sherlock, maybe, but Mycroft?

“This is some elaborate joke cooked up by your brother as revenge for me not asking him to help on the Islington Exsanguinations, isn't it? How did he get you in on it, Mycroft? Did he hide your trouser press? Or threaten to expose your secret ciggie habit to your mum? This isn't funny. It's weird and obscure, but it is not funny.”  
“Detective...”  
“I'm a bit pissed off that you’d do this actually, I know we don’t know each other that well, but I thought we had a sort of… sympatico, y'know? A kind of mutual understanding that comes from putting up with and looking after your brother. I help you whenever you ask me, I do whatever you tell me, so I don’t understand what’s going on, why are you doing this?”

Mycroft nodded his head once, slowly.

“I am aware, Detective Inspector, that you have been invaluable to me on numerous occasions. I appreciate that. I am not attempting to mock you in any way. I need your assistance, Inspector, and for you to assist me you must be made aware of certain facts. I had wished to leave you ignorant of this entire situation, but I cannot conceal it any longer. I am sorry to have to burden you with this, more sorry than you know.”

Greg put his glass down on the desk. It was too late in the day, and he was too old for this.

“Angels and demons, Mycroft? I am not an idiot, despite what you and your brother might think. This is beneath you. Let me out of here, I am going.”

Mycroft did not move. He sat, like Patience on a monument, as if he had all the time in the world. Slowly he opened his mouth to speak.

“I wish I could tell you that it was a prank, Inspector. I truly do.”  
“You ‘n’ Sherlock are angels? Actual angels, with the harmonised singing and the trumpets ‘n’ the white frocks?”

Mycroft’s lip twitched upward for a moment, then it was gone.

“If that helps you.”  
“Fuck off.”  
“You are becoming repetitive, Detective Inspector.”  
“And who am I then, in this grand theatrical of yours? A chubby cherub? The Archangel Gabriel?”  
“You are mortal Inspector, you are human.”  
“Well, thank God for that.”  
“At least, you are now.”  
“What?”  
“You are mortal, but you were an angel, once.”

Greg’s hands flew up into the air in exasperation, then slammed down on the arms of the chair as he propelled himself up and onto his feet at speed.

“Right. Course I was, stupid of me. Goodbye Mycroft. Next time Sherlock goes AWOL or you want a messenger boy with a badge, don’t call me, ok?”

Mycroft didn’t so much as blink at this sudden activity and the increased volume in Greg’s voice. Giving a flick of his wrist he motioned to the chair that Greg had just leapt out of.

“Please sit, Inspector. Allow me to pour you another drink.”  
“No thanks, just unlock the door and let me out.”

There was a pause of several seconds; Mycroft did not move and did not break eye contact with Greg. Mycroft’s eyes expressed regret, but his raised chin and tightly pressed lips told Greg that he was not going to budge on this. Greg massaged his temples with his fingers, smoothing out the tension that had been building since he entered Mycroft’s office, and sighed audibly. His voice, when it came, was softer, resigned.

“I don’t have the energy for this tonight, Mycroft. Fine. I will sit. But only because the door is electronically sealed, and your whisky is too good to pass up.”

He slumped back into the chair, watching Mycroft stand and pour another large measure of Scottish single malt into Greg’s tumbler. As he took the glass from Mycroft’s hand, he hid the slight tickle of pleasure that rippled through him as their fingers touched at the point of exchange. Greg had become pretty adept at hiding these - embarrassingly regular - little reactions in Mycroft’s presence.  
Mycroft slid back into his leather seat and re-steepled his fingers. His head tipped gently to the side as he considered his companion.

“How can I help you understand this, Inspector? What do you need in order to believe?”

Greg barked out a mirthless laugh.

“A severe head injury? Which incidentally is what Sherlock is going to get when I get out of here.”  
“We can sit here all night if you wish, I am in no hurry.”

Greg growled his frustration in the back of his throat, but years of association with Mycroft’s younger brother had taught him that it was going to be quicker to just resign himself and ride this out. Whatever this was.

“Fine. Go on then. Get it over with. Convince me. Whatever gets me out of here the faster.”  
“Thank you, Detective Inspector.”

Mycroft relaxed into the back of his chair; his words came slowly, gently. There was none of the barely bitten back mocking that was usually present in his speech. Mycroft was trying (Greg realised with surprise and then concern) to be soothing, reassuring.

“There are other realms, there are angels and demons, there is a… ‘heaven’ is as good a word as any, and there are events afoot which must be dealt with, Inspector. Sherlock and I are… different, you know that already, but it is the reason for our difference that you are struggling with. I understand that.  
The concept, however, cannot be new to you? Angels have been spoken of throughout all of human history. Do you really think such an idea could have endured if there were no truth behind it?”

Greg rumbled a begrudging response.

“Vampire myths have been around for ages too, Mycroft, but I don’t believe in them either. More whisky. Please.”

He added the ‘please’ after a moment’s hesitation because, no matter how annoyed he was, he liked Mycroft (‘liked’ was an understatement, but he didn’t know the man well enough to use any other word, even if he wanted to) and didn’t want him to think Greg was impolite.

Mycroft leaned over and refreshed Greg’s glass, again.

“You would like to believe in angels though, wouldn’t you? I can see it in your eyes, you want me to be speaking the truth. Something about my words is appealing to you, isn’t it? A half-remembered memory, perhaps?”  
“It’s not that I want any of this to be true, I just don’t want to think that you would lie to me like this, go to all this trouble just to make a fool of me. I am trying to figure out what is really going on here. Maybe you are not thinking clearly, overwork maybe? Or…”

An idea came to Greg…

“…did Sherlock make you anything to eat or drink today? He drugged John’s coffee recently, y’know.”

Greg was almost sure he saw a hint of a smile suggest itself on Mycroft’s mouth as he nodded.

“A fair assumption, but I assure you, I am quite well. Exactly which aspect of what I have told you so far are you struggling with most, Inspector? The idea of the Almighty in general, or of our roles specifically?”

An exasperated noise erupted unbidden in the back of Greg’s throat; his patience was wearing thin.

“Look. I don’t know what it is that you are trying to achieve, but I am not going to sit here, nodding and smiling in the face of such utter bullshit, okay? It’s not going to work. So give it up, Mycroft, whatever this is.”  
“Divinity is something that your mind refuses to accept?”  
“Sherlock’s divinity is something my mind refuses to accept, definitely.”

It was undeniably there, this time. A suggestion of a smile in the left corner of Mycroft’s lips. Greg’s eyes were drawn to the movement and he had to force himself to look away before the direction and length of his gaze was noticed.

“Understandable. But I am at a loss as to how to change your mind, Detective. I had hoped that the discussion of the topic, our discussion of the topic, might awaken some long-forgotten memory, some awareness of what was, but I was too hopeful. Sherlock is an angel, as am I, as were you. This is not a game, this is fact.”

Greg dragged his hands down his face with an exaggerated exhalation and then clapped them together once, loudly, decisively.

“Okay, it’s getting late, I have had three large whiskies on an empty stomach and I need my bed. I’ve had enough of this, let’s cut to the chase. Show me.”  
“I do not follow… show you?”  
“This is the most insane conversation I have ever had, Mycroft. I am a bit bladdered, I will admit that, but I am not quite pissed enough to believe any of this without some proof.”  
“I am unable to offer you proof, Inspector. That isn't really how this works. Quite the opposite, in fact.”  
“Bollocks, show me.”  
“I beg your pardon, Detective Inspector?”

Mycroft’s eyebrow only raised a fraction, but it was enough for Greg to realise his choice of words and blush instantly. Luckily it was dark enough in Mycroft’s office that Greg was pretty sure it went unnoticed.

“Y’know what I mean - your wings, your angel wings. If you are what you say you are, you’d have 'em and I wanna see 'em.”

Mycroft's eyes widened fractionally. He swallowed.

“I don’t think you understand Detective, such displays are not permitted, it would... draw attention to us. We may be noticed, by unfriendly eyes.”  
“Now. Or I am leaving, locked door or not.”  
“Mortals are not meant to see such things. It is dangerous.”

Greg folded his arms. He could play ‘stubborn arse’ just as well as either of the Holmes boys when he wanted.

“I am waiting, Mycroft.”  
“You may not be able to comprehend what you see; I cannot guarantee your safety. It could damage you, irreparably.”  
“Last chance.”

Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes as he brought his hand to his face and smoothed the crease between his eyebrows with his fingers.

“Very well. If you truly need to see in order to believe, I will oblige you. Please, do not tell Sherlock I did this, he would love to know that I had… bent the rules for you.”

Mycroft stood and slowly came around to the front of his desk, facing Greg.

“You may wish to move your chair further away Detective, I will need the room... further… and put the glass down, if you please, it’s crystal…”

Mycroft closed his eyes against Greg’s challenging stare and almost whispered

“I am sorry, Detective Inspector…”

The next second, with a roll of his shoulders, Mycroft Holmes shook out the most incredible, pure white wings, which, as they unfurled, made a soft ‘whoomph’ noise against the air in the silence of the room. A slight breeze rustled Greg’s hair as the enormous wings settled in place either side of Mycroft’s body. They almost glowed in the dim room. The brilliant white of Mycroft’s shirt looked grey and dull in comparison to the white of his feathers. Everything Greg could ever remember seeing looked grey and dull in comparison.

“Holy fucking Chr...”

Greg jumped out of his chair in shock and as he did so, his legs failed him. Before Greg had even registered hitting the floor, Mycroft had hidden his wings away and was knelt at Greg’s side, helping him up.

“Inspector? Inspector, are you alright?”  
“Ohh. Ugh. Wha… why am I on the floor?”  
“You fainted.”  
“Why?”  
“You wanted to see... I showed you… “  
“Oh my God.”  
“Inspector please, the blasphemy.”  
“Sorry. I think I need another drink.”

Greg was resettled in his chair, Mycroft’s hand at his elbow, guiding him into place, before yet another whisky (smaller, with more ice this time) was lowered into his hand. For a few minutes, Mycroft just watched as Greg stared off into the middle distance, repeatedly running his hands through his greying hair (Mycroft noted the movement a little sadly, _‘a coping mechanism; he is self-soothing, fingers through soft silver, does he remember, on some level?_ ’). After what seemed like hours, Greg blinked and came back to the room, taking a deep, ragged breath. His voice, when it came, was quiet and shaky…

“Beautiful.”

That word was not what Mycroft had expected, and he thought he had misheard.

“I'm sorry?”

Greg raised his eyes to Mycroft’s, but Mycroft could tell Greg wasn’t really seeing him, his gaze was still on the wings in his mind’s eye. Greg cleared his throat, blinked a few times and tried again.

“Never seen anything so beautiful, ever. And I’ll never see anything as beautiful again, for the rest of my life. That was it. The most beautiful thing I will ever see. Done.”  
“They are rather a fine example, I admit.”  
“Were… were mine like that?”  
“Similar, but more compact and… not white.”  
“What colour were they?”  
“Can’t you guess?”

Mycroft had still hoped that this discussion - not to mention the visual aid - might have jogged Greg's memory, but apparently not.

“No, I can’t. Tell me.”

To Greg’s ears, Mycroft’s response sounded almost wistful, and he looked over Greg’s shoulder as he spoke, looking at something Greg couldn’t see.

“They were the most exquisite silvery grey, and softer than cashmere. I thought them more glorious than my own.”

Greg seemed to perk up at this revelation. A little of his natural sparkle returned and he smiled.

“Well, fuck me. I had wings. Damn fine ones by the sound of it too.”

Mycroft smiled in response that time. A real, if slight, smile.

“Yes, Gregory, you did, and they were.”

To Greg, the air was suddenly heavy with the weight of what had just been said, too heavy to breathe, he thought. He’d never heard Mycroft speak his name before, and the sound of it on his tongue made Greg’s brain stutter and fail for a moment. He wanted to hear it again.

“…You called me Gregory.”

It came out as barely more than a whisper and Mycroft’s eyes widened in realisation, just enough for Greg to see that it had been a mistake, Mycroft hadn’t meant to use his name. Disappointed, Greg determined not to let it go however, or God knows how long it would be before he heard his name on those lips again.  
Mycroft frowned and ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth for a moment. His voice was as quiet as Greg’s when he responded.

“I apologise. It was unintentional.”  
“Don’t apologise, Its fine, Mycroft, it's nice, actually. I just didn't think you knew my name that's all, Sherlock's never bothered to learn it, the git.”  
“I know your name. Of course I know your name.”

He was still practically murmuring the words.

“Good, then you can use it from here on, yeah?”  
“If you prefer.”  
“I do.”  
“Very well.”  
“Glad that's settled.”

Greg gave Mycroft a reassuring smile and raised his voice back to usual conversational levels. He wasn’t sure how he and Mycroft had managed to end up whispering at each other, but he knew that the darkness of their surroundings, the lateness of the hour, the amount of alcohol he had consumed, not to mention the proximity of Mycroft Holmes, would definitely lead to a ‘tone’ starting to creep into his voice if he didn’t stop whispering right this second.

“So…angels then.”  
“I imagine you have questions.”  
“You imagine right. You said you were a what, an Archangel? What is that, exactly?”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, more comfortable now that they were back on topic.

“Archangels are the ‘most high’ of the heavenly horde, the trusted advisors. The most powerful, the most... beautiful, the overseers. We are the bringers of truth, justice and occasionally the bringers of death. It is a wide portfolio. There are seven of us, at the right hand, as it were.”

Greg shook his head, unsurprised by something at last.

“Heh. Of course that would be you.”  
“I don’t follow.”  
“Well, I couldn't see you being the angel in charge of washing the socks, Mycroft. Course you'd be the top brass, s'obvious. So what was I? What was my job, up there? Polishing halos? Harp maintenance?”  
“You were a Power, of course.”

Mycroft said this like it was the most obvious thing in the world, as if it were inconceivable that Greg wouldn’t recognise his role. Greg’s theological knowledge was sparse, to say the least, and the title meant nothing to him. He huffed out his breath amusedly.

“Which is, Mycroft?”  
“My apologies, talking like this I allowed myself to forget that you aren't...who you were, for a moment. A Power’s role that of ‘elite guard’, a divine warrior; to oppose evil, protect the cosmos and enable the continued movement of heavenly bodies, ensuring order amongst chaos.”  
“Oh is that all? Nothing important then. Jeez. I thought being a copper was a tough job.”

Mycroft frowned and he looked down at his desk, moving his paperweight a millimetre to the left as he spoke.

“You were important Gregory, in many ways. When you left… your loss was felt.“

Greg felt the colour start to rise on his neck.

“Erm, ta.”

It was all he could think of to say, and the ensuing silence could only have been for a second or two, but it felt like an age. Greg cleared his throat and said, slightly too brightly

“So, what is Sherlock, then? Is he an Archangel too?”

Mycroft tried and failed to stifle a derisive noise escaping his lips.

“Perish the thought, I dread to imagine the pandemonium if Sherlock were given that level of responsibility. He is a Guardian.”

This time it was Greg’s turn to try and smother a snort.

“Sherlock? A Guardian Angel? That’s the most farfetched thing I have heard yet.”  
“A perfectly reasonable reaction. Sherlock's angelic nature has been… under a strain for some time, it is quite understandable that you would struggle to recognise it.“

Greg frowned, but before he could ask what Mycroft meant by Sherlock's angelic nature having been ‘under a strain’ the Archangel continued…

“Guardian Angel is rather a lowly position as angelic roles go. He never bothered to try for advancement, likes to ‘get his hands dirty’ as he puts it, looking after the people of London in general and one in particular.”  
“John.”

This wasn’t a question, there was no one else on Earth it could possibly be.

“Dr Watson, naturally.”  
“Huh. I would have thought it was the other way around, if anything.”  
“Indeed. A good angle actually, helping someone by letting them help you. Quite clever, I suppose.”

Greg decided to ask the question he had been hoping Mycroft would just answer without him having to ask. With a deep breath, he said

“So why can't I remember any of this? Why aren’t I an angel anymore?”

Mycroft’s eyes darted to Greg’s and his lips pressed together purposefully.

“It is rather a touchy subject, we are not supposed to discuss it.”  
“But you will, right?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He just looked at Greg, indecision written all over his face. The emotion looked alien on his features, Greg thought. Mycroft’s lips made to form words a few times, but no sound accompanied the movement.

“You will tell me, won’t you? Mycroft?”

Sighing, Mycroft resigned himself to revealing something.

“…Yes. In broad terms. You know about The Fall of course?”  
“The what?”

It took all Mycroft’s will power not to roll his eyes.

“Good grief Inspector, this is very basic theology, seven-year-olds know this story.”  
“I'm listening, and we’d moved on to Greg, remember?”  
“Yes… Gregory. The Fall was, well… the short version would be something like this… there was peace in heaven for immeasurable ‘time’, until some factions of the heavenly host decided it was time for... a change of management. Someone else's ‘turn at the wheel’ as it were.”

Greg nodded.

“I can see that, I guess”.  
“You can?”  
“Yeah, I mean, the Boss wasn’t voted in was He, He didn't have to answer to anybody. I take it there was no chance to have elections, right? I can see people getting fed up with that, wanting to make a change, maybe.”

Mycroft paused, the smallest of smiles thawing his tense features for a moment.

“And so it was. There was...conflict. It was soul-destroying (and I don’t mean that figuratively). The ‘establishment’ regained control eventually and punished those who rose up in rebellion.”  
“Punished how?”  
“Hell was created for their incarceration. The main offenders (Lucifer and his entourage) were thrown out of heaven and banished to hell. Their angelic powers were removed, they became demons.”  
“There really is a hell then?”  
“Hell is not as the stories would have you believe, but it exists, most assuredly.”

Greg sat back heavily in his chair, whistling out a large breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Mycroft watched as this latest revelation settled in Greg’s mind. A few minutes passed before Greg said…

“I still don’t see where I fit in? I am not an angel anymore, so I presume I did something wrong, but I wasn’t thrown into hell either, so…?”

Mycroft looked away, down at his desk and then, as he spoke, over Greg’s shoulder at the wall.

“There were those who were not part of the rebellion, but who...doubted, who saw some sense in what Lucifer was suggesting. The CEO does not like ‘doubters’, THEY like obedience, blind trust, ‘faith’ if you will.”  
“And I doubted?”  
“You were confused by the chaos, you couldn't understand why there was no attempt at understanding, no listening, no compromise. You saw good on both sides of the argument.”

Mycroft’s eyes softened slightly and he almost smiled as he said quietly

“It was so like you, Gregory, to see the complexities, the shades of grey, when to many it was so very black and white.”

The tiny smile died suddenly on his lips and, coming back to himself, he sat a little higher, his voice returning to controlled normality.

 _‘Shame_ ’ thought Greg, who had been beginning to unwind under the gentler gaze and more forgiving tone in Mycroft’s voice.

“But yes, you doubted.”  
“So I was kicked out? Just like that? Just for that?”  
“It was not quite as simple as I made it sound, but yes. There were many, like you, who had to leave, but they were given the gift of mortality. They were able to live here, on earth, human but with no memory of what they were before. If they proved themselves worthy, they would be able to return to heaven after death, just like any other mortal.”

Greg felt the prickle of indignation, of injustice, somewhere in the back of his mind.

“I feel like I should be pissed off about this. If I could remember it, I might be.”  
“It was a mercy, Gregory. You were given a second chance, to redeem yourself. It is a gift, after all, life.”  
“Hmm.”

Greg wasn’t sure about this, wasn’t sure if he felt that being kicked out of heaven for having the audacity to have his own opinion was a gift, but there were too many other things he needed to know before he could take the time to think anything through logically. He pressed on with the next question he needed answering.

“So why are you here?”

Mycroft moved again in his seat. He wasn’t comfortable with the conversation, now that the topic had centred on him.

“Busy times. All hands on deck. It was necessary to step in and stem the tide of evil before the fallen took control of Earth entirely. There comes a point when even THEY cannot turn a blind eye.”  
“The fallen?”  
“The fallen angels. The demons. They are finding ways out of hell in greater numbers, creeping around Earth, causing problems. Many of us have been sent to do battle, and Earth is our battleground. Things have… come to a head.”  
“Bloody hell.”  
“Not yet, but Earth will be exactly that if we don’t get Lucifer’s minions under control. Soon.”

Greg nodded his head slowly several times, chewing the inside of his cheek as he did so. Then he inhaled, met Mycroft’s eye and gave a nervous smile.

“So, how do we do that, then?”

Greg watched relief war with disbelief on Mycroft’s face, tiny micro-expressions that - if he wasn’t a copper and hadn’t spent a lot of time studying Mycroft’s face in the past couple of years - he would have missed. Greg watched as cautious hopefulness settled over his features.

“We? You agree to help, just like that?”  
“Mycroft. You have just told me that there are angels and demons and a war for Earth. That you are an angel, that I am – was one, you expect me to just go home and ignore all that? Go back to chasing robbers and filling out performance reviews for HR?”

Greg heard the response, even though it was barely audible.

“I had hoped that would be your reaction. Thank you, Gregory.”

Greg rubbed his hands together and said brightly (as if it wasn’t late at night and he had just done a full days work, had too much whisky, no dinner and the devil only knows how much ‘God-talk’ rammed into his brain in the last hour)

“So, what do we do?”

Mycroft’s shoulders lowered several inches at hearing those words; he suddenly looked a lot less tired, younger even. As he reached for the whisky decanter, Mycroft moved with less rigidity than he had done all evening. Greg decided he liked the effect.

“Tonight, we do nothing. For now, I just need you to process what I have told you. There is time. Whisky?”

Greg gave Mycroft a grin, the first he had honestly felt like wearing all day.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

……..

Sometime later, the whisky had taken a battering. Greg was slumped in his chair, quite sozzled but seemingly relaxed in the face of recent revelations. A long-forgotten catholic school education appeared to have softened the blow somewhat. These disclosures about angels and demons had come, not so much as a shock, but as a reminder of past fairy tales that he had long ago put away as silly and fanciful. Now they came racing back to the front of his mind, like old friends he hadn’t known he’d lost. Did he remember, on some level? He didn’t know, and right now he didn’t care. Greg dragged his eyes up to find Mycroft’s, who was sitting behind his desk, his fingers steepled on his chin, watching Greg with concern but also a little amusement on his face. A drunken giggle escaped Greg’s lips.

“Heeheehee.”  
“Pardon?”  
“Sorry, it’s just sinking in that’s all. And I am a bit squiffy. Me, an angel. Cool. Bet I looked pretty good with wings, eh?”  
“Fishing for compliments, Gregory?”  
“Nah, it’s just, I am picturing it and if I looked half as good as you do...in wings I mean… then I reckon I looked pretty good.”

A half-smile slid, momentarily, across Mycroft’s mouth. Greg watched it with more pleasure than he knew he should be allowing himself to show, but the whisky (and a head stuffed full of more important things to focus on) had done a job on his ability to care.

“It is true that here on Earth you are something of a (if I may attempt an idiom) ‘handsome devil’, but I am afraid that sparkling eyes, an easy smile and the frankly dirty manner with which you utilise your eyebrows did not go down well ‘up there’.“

Greg’s brain faltered for a moment, but he decided for his own sanity not to focus on the ‘handsome devil’ and ‘sparkling eyes’ portion of what Mycroft had just said, and instead, focused on replying.

“No?”  
“Far too much ‘life’ in you Gregory, it wasn’t seemly in an angel. I am surprised your cocked brow alone didn't have you thrown out of the heavenly sphere way before The Fall.”

Greg couldn’t help himself, he gave Mycroft the double whammy of his ‘easy smile’ and his eyebrow, raised in what Greg was sure qualified as a ‘dirty manner’.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and tutted, looking away, but Greg was almost sure he saw a faint tug at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth as he responded

“You're doing it now. Stop it.”  
“Heeheehee.”

Greg hiccupped.

“So I was a bit of a’ bad boy’ angel with silver wings? Excellent. Hope I took advantage of that with the single angels, hee-hee.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and leaned forward, elbows on his desk as he laced his fingers together and gave Greg his haughtiest tone.

“It is true that on Earth you are very dashing, Gregory, but in heaven, I am afraid (and I do not mean to boast) you were not a patch on me. Up there, tall, graceful and red-haired are the marks of the most powerful and the most beautiful of the angelic horde. That is beauty in heaven. Our earthly incarnations are the same in essentials, but they do not do justice to our real selves. Not to brag, but in my true form, I make a young Jude Law look like Jabba the Hut.”

Greg laughed and raised his glass in a mock toast.

“I don’t doubt that you are quite the Ryan Gosling of the ‘pearly gates brigade’, Mycroft.”

A stab of panic hit Greg as soon as the words were out of his mouth, as he realised that he had just said he thinks Mycroft more beautiful than all the angels in heaven. A deeper stab followed close behind as Greg considered, maybe he meant it. Panic was quickly followed by fear, had Mycroft heard that? Heard what he meant?  
Not daring to look and check Mycroft’s expression for - he didn’t know what - embarrassment? nausea? Greg decided to play the ‘drunken idiot’ card.

“Oh, erm, that was a joke by the way. Maybe I’ve had enough to drink.”

Greg put down his glass and pushed it away dramatically. Then a thought occurred to him…

“…Wait a minute...gingers are the most powerful angels?”  
“Red hair is the mark of high rank, yes.”  
“But you don’t have red hair, it's brown.”  
“It is red. Auburn copper, if you want to be specific.”  
“I'm looking at it now Mycroft, it’s definitely brown.”

Mycroft frowned slightly.

“I colour it. A disguise, if you like.”

A little shiver of delight tickled its way down Greg’s back, Mycroft was ginger. Greg smirked to himself and shook his head.  
_‘Course he’d be ginger, the sexy bastard’._  
Greg reprimanded himself for catching hold of the fact of Mycroft’s true hair colour, of all things, amid all these celestial revelations. Mycroft’s secret ginger status was something to file away to enjoy later when his head had some free space.  
_‘Absolutely not something to think about now or Mycroft will see what you are thinking. He’s always been able to do that’_ , Greg thought, which infuriated and warmed him in equal measure.  
_‘Oh shit, yeah, respond Greg! Continue the conversation you idiot, before he starts wondering where your brain has drifted off to!’_

“You dye it? Why? No one is gonna think you’re an angel just cos you're ginger Mycroft, come off it.”

Mycroft nodded, conceding the point.

“No one who doesn’t know what to look for, certainly. But I am afraid, taken as a whole, my red hair may well raise suspicion in some areas.”

Greg looked at Mycroft, appraisingly. Tall, elegant, skin as clear as water, eyes preternaturally intelligent, omnipotence radiating off him, his voice (when he forgot his pretence of ‘officious arse’) as soothing as the wash of the sea. He was handsome in a way Greg had never allowed himself to contemplate while he was married (well, tried not to allow himself to contemplate). Since his divorce, however, he thought about it often. Considering him now, in the light of this new information, Greg accepted that Mycroft would make an ideal candidate for angelic suspicion if that was what you were looking for.

“Fair enough. You were quite a favourite upstairs, I can see that. And me with my eyebrows…wasn’t. So, did we ever meet? Did I know you? Or would you have been in the ‘executive dining room’ while I was in the canteen?“

Mycroft frowned slightly.

“It does not work like that, Gregory. We do not eat, for one thing.”

Greg gave Mycroft a look of mock horror

“What? No doughnuts in heaven?”  
“I am afraid not.”  
“Well, that’s shit for a start. But…”

Greg tried again…

“Did we know each other? “

Mycroft hesitated before he spoke.

“We did know each other, yes. We were often assigned projects that required both our expertise.”  
“We worked together? Up there?”  
“Many times.”  
“Why? I thought you were senior management and I was one of the minions?”  
“That’s not exactly how it was. But when I was called upon to make a personal visitation to Earth, it was useful to have you along to...smooth the way. Even then, you had a manner that mortals seemed to like, they warmed to you.”

Greg grinned with the realisation.

“People were frightened of you. Even as an angel you still scared the crap out of people, didn't you?”

Mycroft bristled slightly.

“Apparently. I found it efficacious to have you with me, to reassure the terrified and interpret for the stupid.”  
“So you've always been bad with people then.”

Greg smiled as he said this, not wanting Mycroft to take offence at this little, but accurate, jibe.

“‘Human relations management’ isn’t my natural milieu, it's true, but I wasn’t often required to go down and... mingle. I was a strategist, only called upon to visit Earth when the event needed sufficient gravitas.“  
“So we spent time together then, up there.”  
“‘Time’ isn't a meaningful construct in this context, but I suppose we were together for...eons, you could say.”

Greg considered leaving it there, not asking anything that might lead them somewhere his whisky-addled brain couldn’t navigate with any confidence. However, his brain was too far gone to listen to reason by this point, and he pressed on…

“Were we friends?”

Mycroft looked away, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth, considering something, taking time. Eventually, he said

“Friends isn't a term we use.”  
“What were we, then?”

Mycroft met Greg’s eye again, and Greg saw a flicker of uncertainty in those striking, grey eyes. Sure that he should have stopped talking a few sentences ago, Greg fought the temptation to withdraw the question, and instead lifted his glass to his lips and waited. Eventually, the answer came.

“The closest approximation to the connection was I suppose... soul-fast.”

Greg choked on his whisky, spraying amber liquid over his trousers and shoes. Spluttering, but not waiting to be sure if he had swallowed the remnants of whisky still in his mouth, he coughed as he rasped out

“I’m sorry, what were we? We were what? Soul-what?”

Mycroft’s voice was as calm as a millpond, but that little crease was suddenly back between his eyebrows and he straightened his shoulders before he spoke.

“There is no need to be alarmed, Inspector, it doesn’t translate well, that is all. I merely meant that we were - how best to describe it - do you know Plato at all?”

Greg was confused. How were they talking about Plato suddenly?

“Plato? The philosopher bloke?”  
“Yes. The 'philosopher bloke'.”  
“Not at all.”  
“Shame. It may have helped.”

Greg sighed. He knew he shouldn’t ever expect brevity from a Holmes, not when they had the chance to go off on a topic nobody else knows, or cares, about. But still, he would have rather gotten straight down to the ‘soul-fast’ part of the discussion. Greg really needed a definition before his brain made up its own.

“Then please, Mycroft, explain Plato to me and talk quickly ‘cos I could do with some clarification here. And another whisky. Large.”

Mycroft rose to locate another bottle of whisky from a cabinet. Greg wondered if he was relieved to have a reason to move away and put his back to Greg as he explained this next part.

“Plato believed… (and this is all nonsense of course, but for illustrative purposes it is sufficient)”  
“I understand. Get on with it.”  
“Plato believed that humans began as two perfect halves of a whole, connected body and soul, but when they rebelled against the Almighty, they were punished. The ‘powers that be’ split each soul down the middle, creating two halves. These 'semi souls' were scattered to the four corners of the earth, caged in separate bodies. Plato believed that finding the other half of your whole was the ultimate destiny of life.”  
“Okaaaay...keep going.”  
“Well, angels’ function along a similar line. We come as a pair essentially, we share a single soul. Each angel is connected to one other by a thread of spiritual understanding; we can communicate across the domains and be... an anchor for each other. Connected angels are part of each other, in every way that you could imagine, and could no more be separated than you could separate cold from ice.”

No word came from behind him, so Mycroft pressed ahead, still not turning around.

“I realise this all sounds rather quixotic, but it is practical in many ways. Leaving heaven is a wrenching experience, even for a brief visit to Earth, it is achingly painful and disorienting. Having a link to another angel gives us peace, calm. Like Theseus in the labyrinth, we have something to hold onto that reminds us how to get home. Two halves of a whole, you see?”  
“Jesus.”

At this, Mycroft turned and returned to his seat.

“Gregory, please, the blasphemy.”  
“Sorry.”  
“You understand? To be soul-fast means that we were soulma-”  
“Yeah, I get it… I get it.“

Greg begged internally: ‘ _Please don’t say it again, please don’t say that we used to be… we were… soulmates? And now we don’t even speak? That we knew each other like that and now…nothing? Never thought there was such a thing as soulmates, not really, and if there were, I knew I wasn’t gonna have one. And now you are telling me I had you? You were mine and I lost you? Got myself thrown out of heaven and lost you? Fuck. This is it now, this is too much. I need to go home, I can’t listen to any more. I can’t take anything more after that._ ’  
Mycroft was looking at him, his face poised, awaiting a response.  
_‘Oh yeah, talk Greg, you bloody muppet!_ ’

“And you've known this, known me, all this time and never tried to talk to me, properly I mean?”

Mycroft looked away again, focussing on the glass globe on the corner of his desk, reaching out to turn it slowly with his hand, as he replied.

“I wanted to of course, but you didn't know me 'from Adam', what would have been the point? You would have thought me very strange indeed.”

Greg turned his eyes to the globe also, watching the whole world spin on its axis at a touch from Mycroft’s slender fingers. He swallowed.

“Maybe. I'm sorry though, if I saw an old mate who didn't remember me, I'd feel pretty crap about it.”

He hadn’t noticed that they were whispering again.

“We were hardly ‘old mates’ Inspector, we were...”  
“Yeah, yeah, (again he begged in his head ‘ _don’t say the word Mycroft, please_ ’) that's what I mean, must have been tough, that's all I was saying”.

Mycroft nodded slowly.

“Thank you, for considering that. In amongst all you've heard tonight, I am grateful that you spared thought for that tiny aspect of the situation.”  
“Er. No probs.”

Neither of them had made eye contact for this last part of the discussion, and, dragging his eyes back up to Mycroft’s face, Greg tried to steer the conversation back to a, if not easier, then at least less personal topic.

“So... my last question is why are you telling me all this, why now?”

Mycroft seemed to shake himself free from their last words, and his controlled, authoritative tone returned when he answered.

“I would have thought it obvious, Inspector.”  
“Greg. And nothing is obvious this evening Mycroft, spell it out for me.”  
“Moriarty.”

Greg’s inner voice berated himself for not realising this name was bound to come up at some point. But at least this was firmer ground, something he knew about. With a forced laugh he tried for levity:

“Don’t tell me he is the Devil. Not a very good disguise, if he is.”

Mycroft acknowledged the feeble attempt to lighten their talk with a half-smile and a slight bow of his head.

“No no, not the Devil. Moriarty is, however, one of Lucifer’s most wily demons, and I am afraid he is getting a bit out of hand. His influence has spread too wide, he must be dealt with.”  
“How?”  
“He must be returned to hell.”

Greg’s response blurted out before he could filter out the sarcasm.

“Oh, is that all? I thought you were going to suggest something tricky. Bloody hell, Mycroft. Oh, sorry… for the ‘hell’ bit.”  
“I assure you I am aware of the difficulty of the venture, but it can no longer be put off. That is why I need you.”  
“Why me?”

This was a question Greg had been trying not to ask all evening. _‘Why involve me? What could I possibly do that would be of any help to you?’_

Mycroft looked surprised by the question.

“You are an angel, Gregory (or were), you are a police officer and a brave man. What other reasons would I need? Plus, you may not have been aware of our connection, but you are the closest thing I have to an ally in this world.”  
“What about Sherlock?”

Mycroft straightened his neck and raised his chin. Greg recognised that as Mycroft’s ‘I want you to realise I am above all of this’ look.

“Sherlock and I are not actually brothers, we are not related at all. There are no blood ties in the celestial realm. There are only soul ties. The barely disguised animosity Sherlock shows towards me is not misplaced fraternal affection; he dislikes me. Intensely. He is not an ally. We are on the same side, but that is all.”

_Huh. Why the hell would Mycroft put up with what Sherlock dishes out if they aren’t actually related? Mind you, why do I?_

“Then… why do you always look out for him, like a big brother?”

Mycroft shrugged.

“We are both angels, ‘Earthbound’ temporarily and working in London, and I feel responsible for him. He has experienced… trials, for which he blames me - erroneously I might add - but I try to be there, to give him a focal point for his emotions, to allow him an outlet and to monitor him if nothing else. But this is neither here nor there. As I say, you are a power for good Gregory, you would be the obvious choice for a mission of this kind, ex-angel or no. Plus," (he admitted) "I need as many angelic soldiers as I can muster.”  
“How many do you have?”  
“Including you and me? Two.”  
“How many more are you planning on getting?”  
“None.”

Greg’s stomach fell to his knees.

“What?”  
“Exactly how many angels do you think are wandering around the central London area, Gregory?“

Greg responded with exasperation to the flippant tone in Mycroft's voice.

“I have no idea, but I was hoping for more than you, me and Sherlock!”

Mycroft conceded the point with a nod.

“There are some, but they are not ‘Earthbound’, and they are mostly Guardians, like Sherlock, not soldiers.”  
“We are involving Sherlock though, right? Guardian or not, three angels are better than two, right? Well, one and a half really, I am not sure how much help an ex-angel is going to be.”

Mycroft picked an imaginary bit of fluff off his trousered thigh and hesitated before he spoke.

“I would rather not involve my ‘brother’, if possible. Moriarty and Sherlock are an explosive combination. Subtlety is my aim.”

‘ _Bugger subtlety’_ thought Greg. ‘ _Sherlock is an angel, he’s clever and he’s handy in a fight. Plus, he knew Moriarty better than anyone, they needed him._ ’

“I get that, I do, but surely, we need all the help we can get, don’t we?”  
“I truly don’t think…”  
“He is a demon, Mycroft. A demon. And all you’ve got on your side is one disgraced ‘ex-angel’ mortal; a middle-aged, greying copper whose aerobic fitness has seen better days. You need more than me. We need Sherlock.”

Mycroft stared unseeingly at Greg, who could practically hear the cogs whirring as Mycroft made a thousand calculations and followed a thousand scenarios through to their conclusions in his head. Eventually, he sighed.

“Maybe you are right. But we would have to keep Sherlock out of the spotlight, ensure he is ‘behind the scenes’. I don’t want them to see each other if we can possibly avoid it.”  
“I still don’t get the problem, unless... no.”

‘ _Surely not? It wasn’t possible, was it?’_ Greg tried not to connect the dots in his mind, but they were connecting themselves, fast. Mycroft saw the realisation dawning on Greg’s horrified face.

“Gregory, it-“  
“No. Cocking. Way.”  
“I'm afraid so.”  
“That explains everything. The weird obsession Moriarty has with Sherlock, and vice versa…They are whatyamacallit... angelic soulmates!”  
“They are soul-fast, yes.”

Silence fell like lead around them. Neither spoke. Greg was gobsmacked. Running his hands through his hair again, he tried to find room in his head for this latest bombshell. He shook his head slowly, speaking slower still…

“Sherlock, soul-linked to that piece of scum, like Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort.”

Mycroft blinked.

“I beg your pardon? Lord…?”  
“Nothin'. ( _Brilliant Greg, try not to sound like an eight-year-old, this is serious_ ) My Go…odness.”  
“Thank you for that.”

said Mycroft, who had noted Greg’s effort not to blaspheme.

“Explain. Tell me how the he…ck Sherlock and Moriarty are connected like that, still, if one of them is a demon.”  
“Banishment cannot sever such a connection, nothing can. A single soul cannot be separated, even if it comes in two parts.”

Greg looked blankly back at Mycroft, waiting for the rest. Mycroft’s voice softened and he explained more fully.

“Think of them as a coin, if you like. They have two faces, two sides, they look in opposing directions, but they are made of the same piece of metal. They exist in the same space, they share everything that makes them what they are. They cannot, in fact, exist without each other. One coin, two faces. One soul, two entities.”  
“Okaaay… nice imagery Mycroft, but just tell me straight, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded. He drew a breath.

“You realise Sherlock does not want this information shared? I know you will be considerate when he learns you know this, despite how he may react as a consequence?”  
“Course, Mycroft. I understand.”  
“Very well.”

Mycroft settled himself back in his chair as if he were about to tell Greg a story. Greg settled back too, waiting.

“Before the Fall, Sherlock and Moriarty were soul-fasted Guardian Angels. Back then Moriarty was just James. It may be helpful if you think of them as two separate beings – James the Angel and Moriarty the Demon, they are not the same person; one was, one is. Sherlock and James made an impressive team; they were quite the celebrities, and their bond to each other was indeed profound. Stronger possibly, than even yours and mine.”

Greg didn’t mean to interrupt, he didn’t want to stop the flow, but the words spilled out before he could stop them.

“Even yours and mine?”  
“Pardon?”  
“You said ‘even yours and mine’.”

Mycroft looked unsettled for a fraction of an instant, then it was gone. Artificially evenly he said

“I... did. May I continue?”  
“Sorry, go ahead.”  
“Thank you. They were destined for great things, (so everyone thought) until James fell under the spell of Lucifer. Sherlock could feel Lucifer’s insidious influence creeping into James’ half of their soul, their spiritual understanding of each other acting as a psychic link. Sherlock knew James was turning but couldn't bear to betray him, to inform on him. James, in turn, could feel Sherlock’s loyalty to him, and he used Sherlock's... Sherlock's…”

“Attachment?” suggested Greg, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with what he was now beginning to understand, and trying to head off the word he feared was coming.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow slightly and regarded Greg thoughtfully.

“If you prefer to use that word, rather than the one we both know is the right one, then yes. James used Sherlock’s deep, unconditional, everlasting ‘attachment’ to him, to keep Sherlock silent. At the Fall, when they tore James from heaven, he begged Sherlock to come with him, but that wasn’t possible, of course. They have been separated for so long, until now.”  
“And they are still...connected?”  
“Yes. All this time. Sherlock had to feel James’ decline into the cruel, venal monster that he became over the millennia. Hell would turn anyone into a devil, and James’ way of coping was to embrace it, as so many others did. He became quite as successful in the nether world as he had been in heaven, but for very different reasons. And Sherlock was party to it all, helpless as he felt it happen.”

Greg didn’t know what to say, his head was spinning. They sat in silence for several minutes, until, at last, Mycroft spoke again. His voice seemed more melancholic than Greg had ever heard it before, and the sound pulled Greg from his thoughts and focussed his mind back to the angel in front of him.

“Can you imagine how it must feel to be knowingly removed from… to have half your soul ripped from your side like that? That tiny thread keeping you from forgetting, keeping you theirs, to feel them but not being able to see or speak to them? To experience everything they experience and not be able to help or comfort them? What that must do to someone over such a length of time?”

Greg was still just sober enough to hear the message in the words. What it had done to Sherlock to lose James, but also what it had done to Mycroft to lose Greg.  
Greg fought an impulse to leap up and go to Mycroft’s side, but he stayed where he was. That would be weird, wouldn’t it? It didn’t feel weird, right this second, but objectively, offering a cuddle to Mycroft Holmes? The least tactile man in England? Making it clear that he could hear what Mycroft was probably trying hard not to say? They didn’t even know each other that well, except (Greg reminded himself) they did. They truly did. He just couldn’t remember it. But he remained on his chair, nonetheless, feeling like a coward. He answered Mycroft’s question, trying to convey in his tone and his eyes that he understood what was being said and that he was sorry.

“…I can’t imagine that, no.”

Greg barely heard the response.

“I am glad you cannot.”  
“Mycroft, I...”

But Mycroft interrupted him, his tone now unequivocally telling Greg that this part of their discussion was over, and it was back to business.

“Another whisky?”

Simultaneously disappointed and relieved, Greg shrugged.

“Um, that wasn’t what I was going to ask but yes… no… um.”

Mycroft paused, waiting.

“I er… I think I need to go home, my brain is full, I need to think, for a bit.”  
“Of course, it is very late. May I send a car for you tomorrow, to discuss next steps?”  
“Yeah, do that. Just gotta sleep, for now, y’know, process.”  
“I understand. My car will take you home now. Thank you, Gregory, you made this evening easier than you had to, easier than I had reason to hope it would be.“  
“No problem.”

Mycroft made an elegant gesture with his hand towards the door, an invitation to leave, and Greg rose from his chair. Slightly dizzy, maybe from the whisky, but Greg doubted that was the reason, he walked slowly to the door and paused. He heard the click of the automatic lock open, and he turned to Mycroft.

Mycroft returned his gaze and said

“I am sorry to do this to you, Gregory. But there is no one else I could ask, no one else I could trust with this.”  
“S’alright Mycroft, I’ll help, any way I can. Don’t worry, we’ll get this sorted. Somehow. I heard somewhere recently we make a pretty good team.”

Greg was too tired, too overwhelmed, to give Mycroft a full ‘Lestrade smile’, but he gave a decent approximation, given the circumstances. Mycroft acknowledged the effort with a nod and a slight ripple of movement across his own mouth.

“We did, we do. All will be well, I promise you. Goodnight Det…Gregory.”  
“Night, Mycroft, sleep well. Oh, do angels sleep?”  
“No, angels don’t sleep, but when on Earth, our mortal ‘encasements’ do require rest, yes. I appreciate the thought, either way.”  
“See you tomorrow, then. Night.”

The door closed and the lock sounded. Mycroft listened to the sound of retreating footsteps.


	2. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we discover that John Watson is an earthly temptation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, they are still talking, but there will be action at some point I swear.

Greg had slept like a baby that night, which was unexpected. As he had fallen into bed, head spinning, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would lie awake all night, ruminating on everything Mycroft had told him, and get up the next morning with a bugger of a hangover from far too much expensive scotch.   
Instead, he had slipped off into a deep sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. The only thought that had the time to float across his mind before he drifted off was something about red hair…

He awoke the next morning (a much needed day off) with the feeling that he had the most wonderful dream, but he couldn’t remember it. He lay there for a while, dozing, trying to recall what it was making him feel so warm and fuzzy, but it was like trying to catch smoke, the dream kept thinning and separating until it was gone completely. Greg stretched and recalled with a smile that he had nothing planned for today, he could relax and do whatever he wanted. Heavenly.

Greg threw back his duvet, feeling refreshed and energised (he congratulated himself on not coming home from work last night and drinking half a bottle of wine in front of the telly, he was clear-headed to enjoy his day off for a change) and stumped off to the bathroom. As he scratched his head and looked in the mirror… he had an impression of something white in the back of his mind. But no, it had gone. Brushing his teeth…there it was again - white, then gone. Ah well, if it was important it would come back to him. He dressed, made his way into the kitchen and put the kettle on. The white fridge caught his eye as he passed it (‘ _which was ridiculous_ ,’ Greg thought, ‘ _fridges never catch anyone’s eye, they are unobtrusive in the extreme_ ’). 

  
It wasn’t until he was adding milk to his mug of tea, watching the white liquid swirl in the dark cup that he remembered. He dropped the milk carton, white spreading fast and wide across the dark wood of the countertop. Mycroft. With Wings. White wings.   
He sat down hard on the kitchen floor, not even considering a chair, the floor was faster. The whole of the last evening came flooding to the front of his mind in an instant. Mycroft. Wings. Angels. Demons. Moriarty. Sherlock. Mycroft. Linked souls. Feathers. Whisky. Mycroft.  
Milk was dripping off the counter, pooling around him on the floor, so he decided he should probably get up and sit on a chair. Leaving the milk to continue its now slow journey across the kitchen floor, in rivulets between the floor tiles, he grabbed his mug and sat. 

After a minute he realised he wasn’t in shock, he wasn’t confused or panicking or having some sort of ‘road to Damascus’ moment. All this, this ‘new information’ wasn’t freaking him out at all. It should be, shouldn’t it? Why did it feel as if the knowledge had just slipped into a place in his head that had always been there, waiting for the right data to fill it? He felt quite calm, quite at peace with the news that the Holmes brothers were angels, that Moriarty was a demon escaped from hell, that he was once an angel himself until he had been kicked out of heaven for ‘unangel-like’ behaviour (doubting and…eyebrows and whatnot). It all seemed quite natural, quite commonplace.   
He took a breath and tested himself with the most extraordinary thing he had heard last night… _‘I have a soulmate… an actual soulmate… and its Mycroft. He is, um, was mine. We were together. For thousands of years. We share a soul._ ’ Nope. Even that was fine. Felt like he had always known, on some level. _Course they were soulmates, course they were. S’obvious._

Greg shrugged. He couldn’t even bring himself to worry about why he wasn’t worried about it. It was all…fine. He sipped his tea and gave a quiet exhalation of amusement. Probably some angelic ‘Jedi mind trick’ of Mycroft’s, keeping him from having a breakdown when he was by himself, he decided. But again, he couldn’t bring himself to be concerned if this was the case. Everything seemed quite…as it should be. 

Greg looked at the clock, ' _what time will Mycroft’s car come, I wonder?'_  
As if in answer to this thought, his phone beeped. 

‘The car will collect you in one hour. M’

Greg frowned. _‘Hmmm. Was that a coincidence or was that the soul-fasted, psychic link thing in action?’_ he thought.  
Beep. 

‘It was a coincidence. M’

 _‘Um… okaaay.’_

The car dropped Greg at the Royal Observatory. Next to the observatory itself was Greenwich Park, and (after an obligatory stop to stand on the prime meridian and jump from the West to East hemispheres and back again – it had to be done) he sat at the furthest bench on the right, overlooking the park, with the whole London skyline stretched out before and beneath him. It was a pleasant day, warm and bright, and the air was good near the trees. Greg took a deep breath and marvelled again at his reaction to these celestial revelations.   
_‘Cool as a cucumber, that’s me’_ , he thought, sliding his hands behind his head and stretching his legs out in front of him. 

Mycroft was suddenly beside him, taking a seat and looking over at Greg tentatively.

“Sleep well?”  
“Like a log, thanks. Hi Mycroft.”  
“And you are feeling…?”  
“All good, actually. I am guessing I have you to thank for that? You using some angel trick to keep me docile, so I don’t freak out?”

Mycroft gave a small, closed mouth smile.

“Not exactly. I am, possibly, helping your mind process faster than it might usually have done, guiding certain information through your cerebral cortex in a way that will allow you to reach acceptance quicker than if you had to process this independently.”   
“That all you’re doing?”  
“Well, there is a certain amount of ‘grace’ I am able to gift you, to make you feel… calm.”   
“Huh. Well, ta, your ‘grace’ (whatever that is) is pretty great stuff. I feel like I had the best night’s sleep of my life and I’ve woken up all… transformed. Feels pretty good.”   
“I am glad. Have you…” (he hesitated) “…thought any more about whether you could assist me with the problem we discussed yesterday?”   
“I already told you I would.”  
“Yes, but… having slept on it, I wondered if maybe you had thought better of it?”  
“Nope. I’m here if you want me, Mycroft.” 

The eye contact was fleeting but Greg saw the message land, subtle as it was.   
Mycroft looked at his shoes and his tongue skirted the line of his lips before he responded. 

“So, you are ready to take up an active role in the removal of Moriarty?”  
“Course. Ready and raring. Hit me.”  
“Thank you… Gregory, that is much appreciated.” 

Mycroft shifted in his seat, turning to face Greg slightly. 

“Our problems as I see them are as follows…  
1\. We must send Moriarty back to hell  
2\. We must ensure Sherlock does not accompany him”

Greg was already nodding before he heard what Mycroft had said. Then he stopped.

“Okay, fine. Wait, what? Why would you think Sherlock would ‘accompany’ Moriarty to hell?”  
“There is much you still do not know, Gregory. Suffice to say that there is a very real risk that if we remove Moriarty from Earth, Sherlock will go with him. Willingly. We must ensure that does not happen.”

Greg wasn’t being fobbed off like that, though.

“Suffice to say? It is not bloody ‘suffice to say’ at all, Mycroft! What are you not telling me?”  
“Gregory, please, you do not need to know every detail of Sherlock and Moriarty’s history. It will take too long to explain, and you may not even understand after I do.”  
“Oh, cheers.”

Greg folded his arms and looked down at his feet, not really offended but annoyed at Mycroft’s suddenly taciturn approach towards him.

“That is not what I meant. It is merely that the reasons are complex, legion and involve experiences of things your mind could not possibly conceive.”   
“Try me.” 

Greg challenged, still glaring at his shoes.

“As you wish.” 

Greg looked up, as Mycroft resettled himself on the bench, turning more towards Greg and lowering his voice. Greg tried to focus on what Mycroft was saying and ignore what the sunlight was doing to the red undertones in his ‘disguised’ brown hair. 

“You realise Moriarty’s reason for being here on Earth?”  
“Well, he is a demon, so I imagine he has been told by the ‘Big Red Sod Himself’ to come up here and cause some havoc, right?”  
“The Big…? Oh, I see. Lucifer… yes. That was his instruction, yes, but it is not Moriarty’s key objective. Moriarty’s reasons for being here are…personal. He is here for Sherlock. He has come to take Sherlock back with him, to hell.”   
“But… Sherlock wouldn’t go. Regardless of whatever link they still have, Moriarty is evil, and he wouldn’t voluntarily choose to go to hell, not for Moriarty. That’s ridiculous, Mycroft, it’s not true.” 

Mycroft nodded his head slowly as if agreeing, but he continued…

“You remember yesterday when we discussed the bond shared between Sherlock and James? Their… (ahem) attachment to one another? And how they are still soul-fasted, even after the Fall?”  
“Yeah…”  
“Well then. Sherlock and Moriarty’s separation is still immeasurably painful for them both, and I believe Sherlock is finally losing the battle to resist the temptation to end both their suffering.”  
“You mean…”  
“Indeed. Being reunited, even if that meant in hell, would be a profound blessing and relief for them both. Sherlock has fought against it for so long, but I believe that Moriarty’s physical presence here, on Earth, in London, will weaken and break the last of Sherlock’s fragile resolve.”   
“But…this must have happened to other angels too? At the Fall? One half went to hell and the other stayed behind?”   
“Not really no. Usually, if one half of the soul was ‘infected’, it contaminated the other; angels fell together. Those few angels that did not fall with their half…did not last long.”   
“Didn’t last? What do you mean?”

Greg asked this although he felt sure he knew exactly what Mycroft meant. He was just hoping he didn’t.

“They could not cope with the separation, they could not adjust to the isolation.”  
“You mean they, what, killed themselves?”   
“More ‘chose to cease to exist’, they had no bodies remember, nothing to ‘kill’. However, this choice was not theirs to make, and they were then also sent to hell, a punishment for the refusal of existence, but reunited with their other half, which for many was compensation enough. Sherlock is the one angel to last more than a few months with their soul-fast in hell. He has struggled, coped, for more years than there are stars in the heavens, and I think he has finally reached the end of his tether. Sherlock and Moriarty cannot exist independently of each other. That is how they – we - were made.”

Greg thought about not saying it, not reminding himself and Mycroft of their own strange situation, but he said it anyway, even if it came out as barely a murmur and he didn’t look at Mycroft as he spoke.

“We managed it.”

There was a pause. Greg looked up. Mycroft was looking out over London, seeming not to have heard him, until he spoke, gently and slowly, as if still considering the words even as they were falling from his lips.

“Our situation is different, Gregory. Firstly, you have no memory of what was, you lived in blissful ignorance of our connection. This ensured you lived without torment. I do not have this luxury, but as, secondly, you are not in hell, I am spared the torture of your suffering. You are…”

He considered momentarily

“I won’t say ‘happy’…”  
“Oi!” 

The denial was automatic, but the realisation that Mycroft was probably right took the wind out of Greg’s sails and he said no more. Mycroft continued

“(Hush now, you forget I can see into your heart, Gregory) so I won’t say happy, but you are not unhappy, you are occupied and have a positive focus for your life, that is enough to keep me from… worrying about you.”  
  
Greg froze. 

“Oh. You can see into… oh.”

Mycroft saw Greg’s unease and made to reassure him. An act that, in itself, would have surprised Greg only a couple of days ago. 

“Do not worry, it is merely impressions, that is all, wraith-like ‘glimmers’ at most. I am not eavesdropping on your every thought and deed. You are mortal Gregory, and this gives you a barrier to our connection, a protection if you prefer. Nothing to concern yourself about. Your mind is your own, while you are human. I am unable to sever my understanding completely, but more than that, I would not willingly trespass.”

Greg visibly relaxed on his seat.   
_‘Thank God for that_ ’, he thought, ‘ _that was nearly fatally embarrassing’._   
Greg’s mischievous brain instantly conjured up several images from a favourite daydream of his (the one with Mycroft in the dark warehouse… and the ‘search warrant’ and - mmmm - his handcuffs) - certainly not something he would have wanted Mycroft finding in his mind.   
Greg glanced guiltily at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, who was watching the birds overhead and seemed to be paying Greg no heed for the moment.  
 _‘What would he say if he knew what I think about, how I picture him, what I imagine doing with him?’_

Greg shooed these thoughts away before they took hold and remembered to respond in good time.

“Oh. Okay. That’s good. Not that I have anything to hide of course, but y’know” (Greg tried to lighten the mood a bit) “I wouldn’t want you knowing exactly how many curry ‘pot noodles’ I get through, that sort of thing.”

Mycroft acknowledged the attempt at humour with a small ripple of a smile flitting across his lips. He licked it away and replied

“Of course. Your nutritional mistakes are your own private kingdom, Gregory, I can assure you of that.”  
“Phew. But then, as neither Sherlock nor Moriarty are human, their link is more… tangible? Sherlock can’t ‘turn it off’?”  
“Indeed. Sherlock has never forgiven ‘the CEO’ for what happened, not only for expelling James but for making Sherlock bear witness to all the evils of hell that changed James into what he is today. Sherlock is always aware, on some level, of all the acts Moriarty carries out. It is Sherlock’s punishment for not informing the ‘powers that be’ of James’ changing allegiance, that he feels it, the impact of Moriarty’s every thought and action on their combined soul. He cannot, as you say, turn it off.”

A realisation suddenly came to Greg, and his stomach fell.

“Shit. Sherlock's drug habit…”

Mycroft nodded, a hint of pride in his voice as he said

“You are not a Detective Inspector for nothing are you, Gregory. Yes, you deduce correctly, Sherlock’s dependency was borne not out of boredom as he likes to profess, but rather as a means of dampening the constant barrage of suffering, pain, hatred and loss that Moriarty feels, and therefore, they both feel. Sherlock’s ‘poison of choice’ dims the spiritual senses, temporarily giving him relief from everything he can feel. He tries to pretend he doesn’t have feelings when in truth, it is that he wishes he didn’t have them.   
To be constantly bombarded with feelings of anger, betrayal, loneliness, the desire for revenge, from someone you cannot help but wish to more than anything, it is heart-breaking to watch from the side-lines, I cannot comprehend how difficult it must be to live with.” 

Greg rested his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands as he continued to listen.

“I do not blame Sherlock for the way he is, nor for how he chooses to cope, I am only surprised that he has struggled on this long. The temptation to put an end to his suffering must be overwhelming.”

After a full minute of silence, taking this in, Greg scraped his hands down his face and looked up.

“I didn’t realise. Shit, I feel like such a tosser now for not cutting him more slack when he’d turn up at a crime scene ‘off his nut’. You really think he might... one day… give up, take too much, overdose on purpose?”  
“I am amazed every day when he does not. I am not sure I would be so strong. Even facing the consequences.”  
“The consequences? You mean hell.”  
“Hell, naturally. Perpetual, devastating torment.”   
“Fuck.”  
“Sherlock knows what awaits him if he…leaves us. And yet he is still tempted, sometimes.”   
“Why? Knowing what is coming?”  
“You cannot recall, Gregory, but to be reunited with the other half of one’s soul, even after a short separation…is more wondrous than there are words to express. To Sherlock, sometimes, it seems as if this release from separation, to be one soul again, would be worth the price.”   
“He’d go to hell to be with Moriarty? That’s insane.”  
“I realise how it sounds, Gregory, but you only know the Moriarty of the past few years, Sherlock knows him from the beginning of time, before the beginning of time, when he was James. They are one being, and the serenity, the perfect peace that comes with the unification of the soul-fasted, is something that your mortal mind cannot conceive of. You are not expected to understand, just accept that, for Sherlock, taking such a step sometimes feels the lesser evil.”   
“That’s…. fuck, poor Sherlock.”   
“Indeed. This unending tug of war that resides in Sherlock has left him with an anger towards the CEO that no time can heal. He does not even consider himself an angel any longer. He helps us, fulfils his role because he wants to, not because he has to. If he didn’t have John to guard, I do not think he would be here anymore. He would have…left.  
He has often said ‘he is on our side, but he is not one of us’, not anymore.”

Greg suddenly felt cold, despite the sunshine. He felt small and sad and cold. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mycroft’s hand, gently gripping the lip of the bench between them. Could he… could he reach out and take it? He needed to hold Mycroft’s hand, he felt so alone, so fragile, he wanted to feel connected…to him. He could, couldn’t he? They were soulmates, weren’t they? So Mycroft must like him? Not the way Greg liked Mycroft of course, but enough surely, to be okay with the contact? Greg made to move his hand fractionally across the bench, but as he did so, Mycroft stood. He did not turn but said to the air 

“Shall we walk?” 

Greg reluctantly got to his feet, but walking was a distraction at least. Greg noted as they started down the path through the park that they were walking in step, as one. He wondered if they’d always done that and he had just never noticed, or if this was a new thing.   
Mycroft was talking again.

“Essentially, Moriarty wants Sherlock to kill himself. Sherlock also wants to kill himself, sometimes. It is only a matter of time before he does, I am sure. We must return Moriarty to hell before that happens. Moriarty’s games; the murders, the terrorism, they are just emotional blackmail. ‘Come back to me or I will hurt them, kill them, and it will be your fault’.   
Sherlock is a Guardian, he needs to protect people, it is his primary drive on Earth. Moriarty knows how to make Sherlock suffer…through the suffering of others that he feels responsible for. If Sherlock does not give in, does not allow himself to go to Moriarty, more and more mortals will die at Moriarty’s hand.”

Mycroft took a deep breath.

“I am particularly concerned about-“

Greg grabbed Mycroft’s arm.

“John!” 

Mycroft nodded once and looked down at his crumpled sleeve in Greg’s hand. Greg unclenched his fingers and released Mycroft’s arm. 

“As Sherlock’s ‘Guarded One’, Dr Watson is Moriarty’s main target, yes. Removing him from the equation-“  
“Killing John, you mean.”  
“Yes. Killing Dr Watson would remove the main obstacle to Sherlock… leaving. Sherlock moved John into 221b to keep him safe, Sherlock realised Moriarty was coming for him. Sherlock used Mr Stamford as a middleman to bring John to him, to place him into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock is fully aware that if he – leaves – John will be safe. He is John’s Guardian, Sherlock needs, truly needs, to keep him safe. The pull must be unbearable. To go with Moriarty would mean that John is safe, the mortals are safe, and both Sherlock and Moriarty would have what they want most, unification. I do not think Sherlock can hold out much longer, time is of the essence, Detective Insp… Gregory.”

Reluctantly, Greg asked

“So…why doesn’t he go then? If he wants to and going will keep John safe, and stop Moriarty from his murderous rampages, then…why doesn’t he go?”  
“Sherlock may not consider himself an angel any longer, but his sense of duty and responsibility to mortals is undiminished. He would find it difficult to leave them without his protection. That is his raison d'être if you like, his reason for existence. Evil wins when good men do nothing, Inspector, as you know. Sherlock is a good ‘man’, and he plays his part on the right side of the war. Evil would grow stronger if he were to lay down his arms. He has not laid them down yet, but I am sure it will not be long now.”

They walked in silence for a while, Greg thinking about all this new information, Mycroft waiting patiently while it sank in. They had made it nearly halfway around the park before a thought struck Greg. It didn’t seem important in the grand scheme of things right now, so he tried not to voice it, but he couldn’t shake it. He frowned and shoofed the dry autumn leaves on the ground with his toe absentmindedly.  
Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Yes?”  
“You reading my mind again?”  
“I told you I would not, do not, if I can help it, but your body language and breathing make it quite obvious you are wanting to ask something.”  
“Yeah alright, I do. It’s just… Sherlock met Moriarty and didn’t know it was him. In Molly’s lab. Why didn’t he recognise him? If they were soul-fasted, he’d recognise him the minute he saw Moriarty wouldn’t he?”

Mycroft considered for a moment.

“I can only presume that Sherlock was high as a kite at the time, dulling his spiritual sense. I imagine Moriarty was deeply hurt at the snub. He may have thought that John’s presence was drawing Sherlocks ‘attention’, he would not have taken that well. It may explain why he escalated his activities after that point, culminating in the events at the pool when he tied John to those explosives. The ultimate threat. ‘Come with me or John dies’. And Sherlock nearly did, I believe.  
Moriarty’s intention was not to kill Sherlock but to get Sherlock to kill himself. And it almost worked.”  
“But Sherlock was gonna blow all three of them up, John included. It was only that phone call that stopped him exploding them all to kingdom come.”  
“No, it was a mere bluff on Moriarty’s part. If Sherlock had blown them all to smithereens, for the greater good, Moriarty could have returned to hell, but Sherlock would have been returned to heaven, along with John. That was the last thing Moriarty wanted. So when Sherlock threatened Moriarty with that eventuality, Moriarty took his ‘out’ when it was offered. Only Sherlocks suicide could ensure that hell would be his destination after death; a ‘selfless act of self-destruction for the benefit of others’ would not have fulfilled that criteria.” 

Greg puffed out a lungful of air and scraped his fingers through his hair. Mycroft watched the movement from the corner of his eye without turning his head to look. 

“Complicated” Greg said at last.  
“Yes. Sherlock wants to kill himself, Moriarty wants Sherlock to kill himself. With Moriarty in the mortal sphere, with them so close, physically, I do not know how much longer Sherlock can resist the temptation.   
With Moriarty on Earth, Sherlock will fall.   
We must return Moriarty to hell. And soon. Without Sherlock accompanying him.”

Greg stopped walking. Turning to Mycroft, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets and took a long slow breath as he raised his warm brown eyes to the angel’s rare grey ones – like the sea after a storm - Greg could not help noticing. He nodded…

“Right. Okay. How?”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment.

“I am sorry to say… John. John is the only real, present thing keeping Sherlock with us. He is the only weapon we have, our only ‘Earthly Temptation’.” 

Greg snickered despite the seriousness of the situation. 

“Not a phrase I ever expected you to use to describe John Watson!”

Mycroft frowned slightly.

“Sorry, sorry, go on… how do we make Moriarty go back to hell?”  
“To make him would be difficult. It would involve violence, a potential for devastation that I am not sure I could contain. We need Moriarty to go of his own volition.”   
“How on earth could we do that?”  
“We have to make him think Sherlock is coming with him. Then he will go willingly.”  
“Like… a fake suicide pact? That’s not really your plan, is it? Seriously?”  
“If you have a better solution Detective Inspector, I am all ears.” 

Mycroft had raised his eyebrows and was looking down at Greg along the line of his nose, lips thin and tense. Greg didn’t have another plan, of course, and he knew Mycroft wouldn’t have suggested it unless he had thought this through thoroughly. Besides, he had noted the use of his title had returned, and he didn’t want that to stick, so he smiled, the warm, infectious smile that he hoped would thaw Mycroft’s expression a little, as he said

“Okay fine. Your way.” 

Mycroft started to walk again, Greg falling into step beside him, Greg felt it may look a little silly to someone watching them, but it felt unnatural to try and alter his steps to not walk in time with Mycroft, and it felt strangely comforting to be physically in tune with him as they walked in the cool but rich yellow sunshine of the autumn morning. Greg allowed his mind to wander for a moment. He loved the light of autumn, always had. Summer light was too bright, too harsh, autumn light was more soothing somehow. _How did that poem go from school?_

_‘Summer has gone, Autumn whispered,_   
_but I will stay with you,_   
_walk with you into the Winter._   
_Take you there gently, release you slowly,_   
_when you are ready to face the cold.’_

_‘I’ve always loved autumn best.’_ Greg thought.

“As have I.”

Mycroft spoke wistfully, almost to himself. Greg startled at the response to words he didn’t think he had spoken out loud.

“What?”   
“I’m sorry?”  
“Oh er sorry, I thought you said something.”  
“My apologies, Gregory, I did not mean to.”

A suspicion came to Greg’s mind. They continued a few paces, Mycroft ostensibly watching a dog speed across the grass, Greg watching Mycroft.

“So… you like autumn too then?”  
“The ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’? It is quite my favourite season.”   
“Nice to know we agree on the important things.” 

Greg smiled as Mycroft visibly struggled for a suitably scathing response, before settling on nothing more than a small nod and a glance his way.

They stopped for a drink at a coffee cart that had set up shop on the far side of the park (Mycroft scowling at the lack of tea options and opting for a hot chocolate – skimmed milk, no whipped cream, no sprinkles, no added sugar - while Greg went for a ‘long black’ with a heaped spoon of sugar – or two - thrown in for good measure) and they continued to stroll as they drank. It wasn’t chilly enough yet for their hands to be cold, but it was nice to warm their fingers on the cups anyway. Comforting. Necessary. 

“Come on then, tell me ‘this plan’ of yours.”  
“Well, I consider our best course of action is to get Moriarty returned to hell and then to remove the soul-fasting that is tying Sherlock and Moriarty to each other.”

Greg stopped. He tried to recall one thing in amongst the million things he had been told in the last 24hrs.

“What? I thought you said nothing could separate a soul-link thing? I’m sure you said that.“

Mycroft nodded. 

“I did. And I was speaking the truth..., at the time. However, I have since then, spoken at length with the Committee and THEM. If certain favours are granted, THEY have agreed to sever the tie that binds Sherlock and Moriarty.” 

Mycroft stopped walking again and turned his gaze on Greg, the intensity of his stare communicating the enormity of the situation.

“This is unprecedented Gregory, it is unheard of. The exception is monumental.”   
“Ok, well that’s great, isn’t it? That will solve that problem, right?” 

There was a hesitation before Mycroft answered. 

“In some ways, but it creates another problem I am afraid.”  
“What now?”

Greg was beginning to feel like every step forward was followed by two steps back, it was tiring to keep up with all this bureaucratical spiritual red tape. It was like being at work. 

“An angel, as you know, comes as part of a pair. Separating Sherlock from his half will leave him with only half a soul. It will make him… less than.”   
“Less than what?”  
“Than anything with a soul; less than an angel, less than a human, less than a demon. It is unthinkable, monstrous. Sherlock will not survive it, and even if he could live with half a soul (which he cannot) he would be unrecognisable, he would not be anything more than an animal. It cannot happen.”  
“So… why would THEY suggest it then?”

Mycroft looked into Greg’s eyes, and Greg saw plainly that Mycroft was also struggling with that question, but would not voice it. He looked lost for a way to answer. Greg did not ask him to, he felt unnerved to see that look of uncertainty in Mycroft’s face, it didn’t look right there, and he barrelled over the question, moving them on.

“So…link him up with someone else. Get him a new soulmate.”   
“That was my solution also, it is the only way. But angels, being made in pairs, means that there are no ‘extra’ angels walking around awaiting a soul-link. There are no spare souls for him to link to.”   
“Well, what then? We can’t leave him linked to Moriarty like this, and even though ‘THEIR Nibs’ up there says THEY will separate them, we don’t have anyone to replace Moriarty with. And if we can’t get him linked, Sherlock will die. That’s the situation yeah?”  
“As I see it, yes.”  
“So what do we do?”

Mycroft took a deep breath.

“There is… one way.”   
“Well, do that then!” 

Gregory made an exasperated gesture with his hands, inadvertently flinging coffee from his cup onto the ground in front of them.

“It is not as simple as that Gregory. Listen. Sherlock needs his half. Without Moriarty he needs someone. There are no angelic souls in existence for him to link to. So…”  
“So…?”  
“So we must make him one. A new angel specifically created for Sherlock to link with.”  
“Okay, how do we do that?”  
“It has never been done before.”  
“Course it has, or there wouldn’t be loads of angels already, would there?”  
“I mean it hasn’t ever been done like this. No new angels can be created, that THEY are steadfast about. And so the only way to make a new angel would be to…”

Greg was getting agitated, just wanted to know everything, now.

“To…? Come on Mycroft, spit it out!”  
“To ‘promote’ a mortal.” 

It was a few seconds before Greg could process what this meant.

“You mean, turn a human into an angel?” 

Mycroft nodded. Not taking his eyes off the path as he spoke.

“THEY are unhappy at the idea. After much negotiation THEY have agreed, but…   
1\. we must find a soul that is pure enough to be considered for angelic status.   
2\. this soul must be given freely and with perfect knowledge of what they are doing, perfect trust in, and perfect love for, Sherlock.  
3\. this soul must be compatible with Sherlock’s, they must be ‘as one’ even before they are linked for the process to work. Like blood types, like a jigsaw puzzle, they must fit, if we are to have any hope of success.” 

Greg shook his head slowly, understanding and then dread coming as inexorably as the tide. His voice, when it came, was a whisper.

“Oh shit. You mean… “  
“I see you comprehend the enormity of the situation.”   
“We can’t ask him to… “  
“There is no other way. I wish there were.”

Greg couldn’t think of a thing to say. His feet moved automatically, keeping pace with Mycroft, but his mind was reeling. After a few minutes silence, Mycroft spoke once more, tried to be reassuring.

“Dr Watson won’t remember, afterwards. He won’t know he is an angel. He will live his life, as usual, then when he dies, he can learn his true nature. Sherlock may return to heaven with John or John may choose to become a Guardian also and remain on earth with Sherlock. It will be their choice. That is…astounding Gregory, to be given such a choice. THEY have been generous beyond measure.”  
“Have you told Sherlock yet?”   
“No. But I will.”   
“And then let Sherlock ask John? Oh, Jesus (sorry) how the hell (sorry) is he going to do that?”

Mycroft sighed, steeling himself for revealing another difficulty.

“He won’t. You must tell Dr Watson, Gregory.”

Another significant portion of Greg’s coffee was sloshed to the floor as Greg spun round to face Mycroft.

“WHAT? No way Mycroft, that is not something that’s coming from me. Sherlock needs to ask him. It’s between the two of them. I know Sherlock isn’t good with conversation, especially about y’know, personal stuff, but this is important, Mycroft, it needs to come from him.”

Mycroft shook his head.

“No Gregory, it must be you. You have a way with mortals, Gregory, always have. John will trust you. If Sherlock or I try to explain this to him, he will not believe us. He will assume it is some experiment or mind game. He will believe you. You can make him understand. You have been in a similar situation yourself, recently, you will know what to say to him. It must be you.” 

Greg threw his now empty cup into the bin with force.

“Bastard.”  
“I am sorry, truly. If I thought there was another way, one that would have a better chance of success, I would of course, not be asking this of you.“

Greg exhaled. He knew that was true of course, and that it was also true that John would think Sherlock was having a laugh, or high if Sherlock asked John himself. But this was still a bigger thing than he had ever been asked to do before. It was like being asked to propose to someone on a third parties behalf, only even bigger. He was gonna have to ask John to give up his humanity, become an angel and share his soul (his soul for God’s sake) with his pig-headed, know-it-all flatmate. John was able to put up with Sherlock more than anyone else on Earth could, and John cared about Sherlock, that much Greg was sure of, but more than that? Be willing to give up his mortality, linked with Sherlock forever, actually forever? Greg wasn’t at all sure John could agree to that, who could?  
But what choice was there? All he could do was to ask and let John decide. Give him the information and let John choose. There wasn’t any other option. 

“Okay, Mycroft. I’ll do it, I’ll ask. But you owe me.”  
“As you wish, Gregory. Thank you.” 

Their feet walked them back towards the observatory, where Mycroft’s car was no doubt waiting to whisk him away, and they did not speak as they began their journey slowly back up the hill, away from the city. Greg’s head was spinning, again, with too much information. Mycroft seemed to sense this and did not disturb Greg as he thought, even stilling the swing of his arm and the ‘ting’ of his umbrella’s tip on the path as they walked. 

It was an unworthy thought, but it just popped into his head - ‘ _Thank God for John, or else I might have been in the firing line for linking up with Sherlock. If I didn’t already have an angel of my own, that is.’_  
Greg surreptitiously glanced over at Mycroft, his eyes sliding over that elegant profile and long neck.  
 _‘Are we gonna talk about the whole ‘soulmate’ thing? Or just pretend that we aren’t literally made for each other. Actually been made for each other?’_ Greg wondered. Should he say something? Ask if this could, possibly, change anything between them? How they could ‘be’ around each other?  
Mycroft spoke quickly, breaking through Greg’s train of thought. 

“I don’t think there is anything else we need to discuss right now, is there? We can leave it there, I think. I will contact you later once I have made certain preparations.” 

_‘Guess not’_ Greg thought, relieved and disappointed simultaneously.

They approached a large, black saloon car with blacked-out windows and Mycroft gave Greg a nod and held out his hand. Greg took it and they shook, but as Mycroft made to release his hand and open the car door, Greg held on, keeping Mycroft there. At Mycroft’s enquiring look, Greg said in a low tone

“Mycroft…do I…do I want to know what it is that you had to give THEM in return? What you had to negotiate to get this ‘unprecedented act of mercy’ for Sherlock?”

Mycroft gave him a sad, almost smile and put his other hand on top of Greg’s, pulling gently until Greg released his grip. He replied with a softness in his voice that Greg wouldn’t have thought possible two days ago, and one that made his chest almost hurt with the melancholic beauty of the sound. 

“A conversation for another time, perhaps. There is much to be done at present. Do not worry yourself, Gregory. You will come to 221b tomorrow and talk to John. We must press ahead.”

He turned to leave again, but again Greg reached out, putting a hand on Mycroft’s arm, grasping his coat sleeve, stopping him from leaving. 

“Seriously Mycroft, what have you done?”

Mycroft did not look at Greg this time but looked across the skyline as he replied

“What was required.” 

He gently extricated his arm from Greg’s grasp and, taking his phone out of his pocket, he put it to his ear, ending all further discussion as he stepped into the car. Greg watched it drive away and then, with no enthusiasm he attempted a joke, an effort to lighten his mood and distract himself from the enormity of what was coming. ‘Don’t offer me a lift then, you wanker’ he murmured to himself. But it didn’t work and Greg, again feeling colder than the day's weather could be blamed for, began to trudge to the tube, and home. 


	3. Asking John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg asks John to give up his mortality, and Sherlock and John have an important chat.

Greg was late arriving at Baker Street the next evening. For some reason, he could not get his legs walking fast enough to reach 221b at the agreed time. He found ‘the brothers’ in the sitting room, glaring at each other in silence. ‘ _Business as usual then_ ’ Greg thought and slunk into the kitchen where John was making tea, with a nod to each of them as he passed.

“Hey mate.”  
“Hi, Greg. Tea?”  
“Please.”   
“Here you go. Just to warn you, they are being especially peculiar tonight. Have barely said a word to each other, neither one moving. It’s like a really antagonistic staring contest in there.” 

John shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 

“What are you doing here anyway? New case?”  
“No, sorry, nothing new today… Sherlock didn’t mention I was coming over tonight?”  
“Not a word. Good to see you though, maybe you can help get them talking. Or at least keep me company while they glower at each other.”

Four cups of tea were placed on the coffee table and, with all four men seated, Greg looked sideways at Mycroft. _How to begin?_

“Dr Watson.”

Mycroft spoke, taking control as it was obvious Sherlock had not laid any groundwork and either had no idea how to start this conversation or was unwilling to do so.

“My brother has something he would like your help with.”

John looked at Sherlock quizzically. Sherlock was not looking at either John or Mycroft but was fiddling with his dressing gown cord as if he couldn’t even hear them.

“Yeah?”  
“Yes.“  
“Sherlock?”

Sherlock met John’s eye this time, just for a moment, and then returned to fussing with the cord in his hand.  
Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“My brother is reluctant to ask you because it is a singularly dangerous and… personal task, which you alone can help with.”   
“Riiiight?”

John was looking a little apprehensive now.

“You are of course, perfectly at liberty to refuse. It is a significant request. I cannot, offhand, imagine a larger one.”

John tried to smile, but his forehead was crinkled in confusion. 

“What is this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up again. Then he rose and waved a hand at Greg as he made his way across the room to stare unseeingly out of the window to the street below. 

“Gavin will explain.” 

John turned to stare at Greg.

“Greg, what is going on?” 

Greg took a deep breath.

“There is something…several things, you need to know. Um, maybe we should have a bit of privacy, um Sherlock can we use your room?”

Sherlock nodded, still not looking around.

“Sherlock? Has something happened?” 

John made to move towards Sherlock, demand his attention, but Greg clapped a hand on Johns back, steering him away, leading him out of the sitting room. 

“C’mon mate, let’s go have a chat, yeah?” 

As the two friends reached the door to Sherlock’s room, and Greg ushered John inside, Mycroft was suddenly behind Greg, leaning to his ear. Greg tried not to focus on the feeling of Mycroft’s breath on his skin as he said in low tones

“There will only be one shot at this, Gregory.”  
“I am aware of that Mycroft, thanks.”

The enormity of what he was about to do to John, turn his entire world upside down, began to press down on Greg. Closely followed by another realisation, that this must be how Mycroft felt when he had sat Greg down and explained angels and demons, soul-fasting and Hell. He felt a pang of guilt at not realising before what a hard thing it must have been for Mycroft to do, only truly understanding now he was about to do the same thing to John.

“Remember… perfect knowledge, perfect trust and perfect love. Tell him everything. Ask if he can put his soul in Sherlock's hands. and if he can lo-“

Greg cut off the word.

“Yeah, I get it. I’ll do my best Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded and retreated to the sitting room, where Sherlock had turned from the window to watch the door to his bedroom close, Greg and John inside. Knowing that when John emerged, nothing would be the same.

An hour later, and no sound had come from the bedroom. It was getting dark, but neither Holmes had turned on a light, they just sat, waiting. Mycroft ramrod straight on the sofa, Sherlock slouching in his chair, trying and failing to look relaxed. They both looked up towards the bedroom when they heard the creak of the door.

Greg opened the door a crack. It was dark inside the bedroom, no sound.

“Mycroft, er, can we… borrow you a sec?”  
Sherlock was on his feet in an instant. 

“What’s happening?”  
“Sherlock, shut it. Mycroft, can you come and…um, do your party trick? Might clarify things a bit.”

Mycroft sighed and slowly entered the bedroom, closing the door behind him.  
A minute later there was a crash and a thump. Then silence. Mycroft appeared again from the room and shut the door.

“What happened?” Sherlock demanded.  
“John…lost his footing for a moment. He is quite well now.”

Sherlock rose from his chair with a determined look on his face. 

“Sherlock, sit down! It won’t help, you must wait til you are asked for. I am sure you will be. Do not fret, brother mine.” 

Twenty minutes later and the door opened again, and Greg’s face peeped out.

“Um, could we get a cuppa in here? And something with sugar, lots of it. Biscuits or something?”  
Sherlock rose again.

“John?”  
“Later mate, just give us a bit more time, yeah?”

Then… at last, Greg emerged from the dark room, alone. His walk betrayed how he felt; exhausted, wrung out. He made his way to stand next to Mycroft, leaning his thigh against the arm of the sofa for support. Mycroft looked up and seemed to understand everything without asking.   
Sherlock was on his feet again, a ball of nervous energy even at this late hour.

“Well?”

Greg nodded wearily.

“He’ll do it, Sherlock…he wants to speak to you.”

Sherlock barged past Greg at speed and lunged at the door, closing it behind him.

Mycroft rose from his seat and, taking Greg by the elbow, guided him to sit. He didn’t speak, not until he had made Greg a cup of strong tea, placed it in front of him, and settled himself beside Greg on the sofa.   
His voice was calm, quiet and reassuring in the darkness.

“Are you sure, Gregory?”  
“Yeah, it’s okay, John is on board.”  
“Perfect knowledge, perfect trust and perfect love, Gregory. That is what is required, can he do this? Does he first understand what is being asked of him?”   
“Yeah, he gets it.”   
“Secondly, does he trust Sherlock with his soul?”   
“Yeah, that wasn’t even an issue, actually.”   
“And the… final part?”   
“That’s… not gonna be a problem.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows raised a fraction without his being aware of the movement.  
  
“You are certain?”  
“Mycroft, I just spoke to him for 3hrs. And after all the god stuff, and the demon stuff and the ‘giving up his mortality’ stuff, all he wanted to know was how Sherlock was coping with this. How Sherlock felt about the plan, worried about how he had coped this long, how awful it must have been linked to Moriarty, feeling guilty for not giving Sherlock more slack. I had to physically hold him back twice from dashing out here to see him.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

“I see. Well, that is most gratifying.”

Greg tried to smile.

“Who knew eh? Turns out he lives for your brother, he’ll die for him, no question.”

Mycroft met his eyes, he tried to look disapproving, but his obvious relief at Greg’s accomplishment shone through.

“Slightly melodramatic Gregory, Dr Watson’s life won’t be ending, just…altering. Significantly. But I take your point.”

***

  
Sherlock closed the door to his bedroom and, without making eye contact, lowered himself carefully onto the bed, next to John. The silence was absolute for a few eternal minutes. It was, of course, John who dared to speak first. 

“So…”  
“So.”  
“You are a… guardian angel, then?”  
“Yes, John.”  
“MY guardian angel.”  
“Yes.”   
“Jesus, Sherlock.”

John shook his head and leant back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock tried for levity.

“Not quite. Met him once though, couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, to be honest.”   
“Sherlock…”

Johns warning tone told Sherlock that jokes were not going to help this time, he was going to have to talk. 

“I realise you did not ask for this John. Are you sure you understand what is being asked of you?”

John snorted, in spite of himself.

“Nice use of the passive voice there Sherlock. What YOU are asking of me, yeah?”  
“Yes. What I am asking. I wish I didn’t have to, but yes.” 

John sat up and resettled himself next to Sherlock on the edge of the bed. He took a deep breath.

“Why me? Why choose me for this… this…”

Sherlock turned to look at John. He blinked several times before he answered.

“It would obviously be you, John. Of course it would be you.”

 _'Nope. Not enough'_. John tried again.

“WHY Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked down to the dark floor. His voice was quieter when he finally replied. 

“You know why.”

 _'Nope. Not nearly enough'_. John sighed heavily. It was like trying to get blood out of a stone, sometimes. He allowed a more forceful tone to creep into his voice as he said

“If I am gonna do this, the least you can do is talk to me, properly for once. Why. Me. Sherlock?”

Sherlock resigned himself to saying something. Almost something, anyway. He looked up into John's face and knitted his eyebrows as he tried to say it. Almost say it.

“John, you already know that you are my only real friend in this world, the only person I trust, the one person I spend my entire life protecting, guarding. There would be no other choice than you.   
I wouldn’t ask anyone else, and I couldn’t anyway, no one would ‘fit’ except you.   
It's only you, John.   
I don’t understand what else you want me to say?”

There. Surely that would do? That would be enough, wouldn’t it?

“Greg says… afterwards, I won’t remember any of this. Won’t remember anything about tonight and what I’ve been told. Is that right?”  
“THEY will wipe your memory, allow you to live a normal life until your death when you will regain your memory of all this and begin your new life as an angel.”   
“Then, I won’t remember anything you tell me right now?”  
“No.”  
“Then say it.”

Sherlock almost smiled. Of course he couldn’t fool John with ‘almosts’. He couldn’t get out of this He would have to be honest. Closing his eyes against John’s insistent gaze, he began.

“John I… can’t. I want to but I can’t.”  
“Why not?”  
“I am soul-fasted. I am unable to offer anything of myself to someone else, even you. I want to John, but…”  
“But…?”  
“I’m in a bubble John, and I can’t get out or send anything outside the bubble, not without his knowing about it, feeling it. I’m stuck in here, and I can’t say or do or be anything that I want to be – for you - until that link is severed.   
He hates you, John. He despises you just from what he knows from me, what I have allowed myself to think, feel, he can hear it, feel it too and he wants you dead because of it. If I dared think more deeply or…act in any way more demonstrably than I already do, there would be a snipers rifle at your head within the hour. I can’t risk it, John. I won’t allow myself to think or feel anything more about you or for you than I have – selfishly - already allowed myself to do. It risks you every time. I know I am – unkind – sometimes, cruel even, towards you, and I am sorry. But please understand that it is usually my ‘penance’ to Moriarty for some thought or deed that I know would anger him more against you, I try and redress the balance. I have no idea if it helps, but I am sorry for every time I have treated you badly in a clumsy attempt to protect you.”

The two men (or angel and soon-to-be angel) sat in silence in the darkness for several long minutes. Eventually, John spoke. 

“Last month when you… when you locked me in that bloody lab and made me think I was about to be torn limb from limb by a ‘gigantic hound’ and scared the absolute shit out of me…”  
“Yes. Again I apologise.”  
“What was that penance for, exactly?”  
“It is unimportant.”  
“No, it is important Sherlock, it is. What had you thought or…felt that meant you did that to me to atone or whatever?”  
“You won’t remember this, so I suppose… it was the evening of our second night in that B&B, the evening I thought I had seen that beast.”  
“Yes?”  
“I was scared, John. And that night, you were asleep in your bed, and I was in mine a metre from you. And I was scared. I thought the ‘end days’ had come early, hell hounds released, seas boiling, the sky falling, the whole Armageddon extravaganza. I wanted to wake you, to tell you I needed help, that I needed you. I listened to you breathing and all I wanted was to crawl into your bed beside you and feel your warmth, have you tell me it would all be alright. Hours I lay there, thinking like that, watching you sleep.” 

John looked down at the floor. His voice was quiet as he said

“God Sherlock, I’m sorry. I was a prick to you that night.”

Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t heard John speak

“By morning I could feel Moriarty’s disgust, his rage, his… jealousy. He had been planning something, I knew that, but that morning all his plans were thrown aside, and he was coming for you, right then, that moment. I had to do what I did to… appease him. Make him think I didn’t mean all those things I thought, pictured…”

John cleared his throat.

“So, every time you’ve behaved like a bastard towards me for no discernible reason, that was you ‘making up’ for thinking something…nice about me?” 

Sherlock didn’t reply, but John looked as if a light was beginning to dawn.

“Hm. You are always more of an arsehole to me in the mornings, have you noticed that?”  
“I am not a ‘morning person’ John.”

 _‘Mm. Or maybe he’s been ‘thinking nice things about me’ at night._ ’ John tried not to continue this thought to ‘in bed’ but it came at him in such a rush that he couldn’t stop it. Luckily Sherlock was speaking again and John was able to refocus his mind on what Sherlock was saying.

“I can’t imagine why you are doing this for me, after the way I have treated you. I am grateful of course, but I don’t understand your reasoning, John. What do you think you are going to get out of this?“

John made his patented ‘exasperated’ face and turned his body to face Sherlock on the bed.  
“What will I get out of this? Sherlock, you saved me. I thought you did that a couple of years ago when you invited me to flat-share, but I know now you’ve saved me hundreds of times before that, that you looked over me, my whole life. To have the chance to pay some of that back is… nothing in this world or the next could stop me from doing this for you Sherlock.”

John smiled, trying to lighten the mood. 

“What will I get out of it? Aside from the wings, you mean? I get to help get rid of Moriarty once and for all, I get to have my best mate around…forever, actually forever, can’t get rid of me after this, you’ll be stuck with me, and me with you, ‘til the last second of recorded time. And afterwards.” 

Sherlock turned his almost ridiculously beautiful eyes on John, catching him and holding him steady in his gaze. He frowned slightly, searching John’s face, as he said

“You honestly think you can endure that?” 

John shrugged, but the casual gesture didn’t fool either of them.

“I think I can put up with that if you can.”  
“I think I can, John. Thank you.”

Neither spoke for several seconds, neither looking away, both mentally absorbing what they had both not quite said.   
It was enough. For now. 

John clapped his hands down onto his knees and the sound broke the moment. Cleared the air. John adopted a look of mock professionalism and when he spoke again his voice was playful.

“So, now that we’ve got that out the way…I wish to register a complaint.”  
“A complaint?”  
“Yep. About your job performance.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth hitched, but he got it under control almost immediately.

“Please… go on.”  
“You let me get shot. In Afghanistan.”  
“Yes.”  
“You didn’t make the bullets evaporate or bounce off me or anything like that.”  
“No, John.”  
“Nice guardian angel-ing job there, mate, cheers.” 

Sherlock looked a little hurt, despite the light-hearted tone in John’s voice. He answered defensively

“I did an outstanding job there, actually. You should have died, you didn’t. You got to have the adventure, save some lives, then come home in one piece. Do you have any idea how much effort it takes to shield one tiny human on a modern battlefield, John? It was exhausting, helping you to have your fun.”

It was now John’s turn to take offence.

“FUN?”  
“Yes, John. Fun. I was with you the entire time, have been since your childhood, I know you, John Watson. You were having fun.”  
John considered and slowly, he nodded. No point bickering when Sherlock was maybe, partly right. Maybe. John cleared his throat and, in a hesitant voice, directed at the carpet, John replied

“…And after I got back, when I was in that shitty bedsit, all alone, no job, the anxiety attacks, the nightmares?”

Sherlock found the same patch of carpet suddenly fascinating as he murmured

“I was there as well.”   
“Huh. Couldn’t have magicked me up a lottery win? Or at least a 4-star hotel and a decent night’s sleep?”  
“It was necessary John, you needed to process. No distractions. I stayed with you the entire time. Sat with you, you weren’t alone.” 

John's eyes flew to Sherlock's face.

“You…were with me then? When I got so low, I thought about…“

Sherlock's eyes rose hesitantly to meet Johns.

“I held you. Kept you warm. I swear I never left your side until you were strong enough for Stamford to bring you to me in person. You were never alone, John. Never. I was always there”.  
“Sherlock…”

At this moment the door opened, and Mycroft’s unmistakable outline was silhouetted in the doorway. His voice came in such contrast to the quiet confessions and whispered revelations of a moment before, that the sound jarred in John's ears.

“Yes, alright, if we’ve finished the ‘footsteps in the sand’ routine, may we get on with the task at hand? Time is of the essence, brother mine.”

Sherlock scowled but stood, striding up to Mycroft and purposefully giving him a faint shove as he passed into the hall.

“Never known an angel with less poetry in their soul, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft gave him a trademarked sarcastic, closed mouth smile as he allowed John to exit the room, before saying coolly

“Gregory got the half with the poetry, I got the critical analysis skills. Now may we get on please, there are many extraneous variables we have to account for before the plan can be actualised.” 

With a theatrical sweep of his hand, Sherlock ushered Mycroft to sit in front of his already open laptop on the kitchen table.

“By all means…actualise away.”

As John made to sit, quiet and small in a chair, Mycroft said quickly but not unkindly

“Not you Dr Watson, you will need to rest after the evenings ‘surprises’.” 

John tried to look alert, but his eyes betrayed that he wasn’t really in the same room with the others, he was miles away, brain stuffed full and exhausted. His voice was a fatigued monotone as he replied

“No, it’s fine, I’m fine.”   
Mycroft tried a different tack. 

“Please, Dr Watson. Sherlock needs you physically and mentally prepared for what is ahead. You will need to be ready for his sake. We will call if we require you, you have my word.” 

John looked at Sherlock, who nodded.

“I am knackered, a few hours kip couldn’t hurt. And I will be just at the top of the stairs… if you want me.”

This last was said to Sherlock, who nodded again, and John turned and left without another word. 

Several hours later, approaching dawn, the little band of demon hunters went their separate ways. Sherlock and Greg to their respective beds, Mycroft straight off to Whitehall.   
All the way home, Greg’s thoughts had been with John; going over their discussion, seeing the emotions on John’s face, his fear, confusion, amazement etc. How he had reacted when he knew Sherlock needed him, and what he could do to rid Sherlock of his demons - literally. Greg berated himself for not spotting the signs earlier – John loved Sherlock. More than that, John was in love with Sherlock. Course he was, how Greg hadn’t seen it was a mystery to him now. Those long looks and quiet words, his physical proximity to Sherlock all the time, his commitment to Sherlock's work, his immediate acceptance of Sherlock's lifestyle (his weird hours and body parts in the fridge etc). Greg felt a bit stupid – he was supposed to be the Detective after all.   
He purposefully did not allow himself to think of Mycroft all the way home. But once there; clothes abandoned, lights out, crashed out on his bed in record time, his thoughts immediately flipped to him. To his angel.  
Mycroft in Sherlock's room, standing there before them with those powerful white wings settling around the shape of his body.   
They looked unspeakably, intensely beautiful.   
He looked unspeakably, intensely... enticing.   
Greg felt like a tiny moon being drawn into a black hole – an inescapable, irresistible force pulling him in. The first time he had seen Mycroft’s wings it was only for a second before he had passed out, this time he was able to look, study, enjoy. Even as he was helping John up from the floor (was crumpling up in a heap a common response to seeing angels for the first time?) he had half his attention on Mycroft. He ran his eyes over the feathers, heavy and gleaming in the evening light through the window. He had wanted to touch them. His hands had kept flexing, trying to reach out, and it had taken all his concentration to hold them at his sides. They looked cool and clean and Greg had the impression that if he brushed his nose against them, they would smell of mountain rain, bay leaves and… him.   
Greg’s mind began to drift from reality, and as he watched Mycroft, Mycroft lifted his eyes to meet Greg’s. That infuriating, knowing smile slid across Mycroft’s face and Greg stepped closer. In this now entirely imagined scene, John had vanished, it was just the two of them in the darkness of the room. Greg stepped forward again. Mycroft moved his wings outwards a fraction to allow Greg to move nearer, then replaced them so the tips of his feathers were ever so slightly surrounding him, but not touching.   
Greg stared at the expanse of soft, pure white majesty and his hand moved involuntarily. 

“Can I touch you?” Greg asked.   
“You can touch them.” Mycroft murmured.  
“But... can I touch you?” Greg asked again.

Mycroft cocked his head to one side slightly, surprised. He nodded.  
Greg lifted his hand, ignoring the wings he reached up and stroked Mycroft’s jaw with the backs of his fingers, bringing his hand slowly down to rest on Mycroft’s neck, fingers just curling around his nape, his thumb still stroking Mycroft’s face gently.   
Greg drifted off into sleep, following these thoughts down into his unconscious, chasing them into his dreams.


	4. A Letter From Lucifer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg makes his move, a communication is intercepted, and Mycroft and Moriarty make a deal.

A week of long hours followed. Greg hadn't been into work since the night he’d spoken to John, this was more important. The odd murder would have to take a backseat for a few weeks.   
The four had been holed up at Mycroft’s club for the first days; eating, sleeping and washing there, locking themselves in a room and only opening it for deliveries of food from the club's staff. They had been working out their plan and making arrangements from dawn till nearly midnight every day, which was hard enough without the added difficulty of Sherlock.  
They had to have Sherlock with them, they needed him, not only for his brains but because he knew Moriarty, they needed his insight. The problem was, the link that tied Sherlock to Moriarty gave Moriarty access to Sherlock’s thoughts and emotions. They couldn’t risk Moriarty learning of the plan, which meant Sherlock’s presence had to be ‘handled’. Discreet members of the Diogenes staff delivered the necessary ‘chemical assistance’ to keep Sherlock’s connection to his demon manageable, to keep Moriarty from Sherlock’s thoughts in a way that Moriarty would assume was nothing more than Sherlock’s usual drug-induced anaesthesia. Sherlock could still help them, but he could use the fog of the drugs to mask his thoughts from Moriarty at the same time.   
It was difficult to watch Sherlock like this, trying to walk the tightrope between being clear-headed enough to help, but ‘out of it’ sufficiently to bamboozle Moriarty.

As Greg looked about him in the large, oak-panelled room that had been home for the last few days, he could see the stress and exhaustion he felt reflected back at him from the faces of those around him. Mycroft especially, Greg had never seen him look so dishevelled. As worrying as it was that things were so serious that Mycroft had allowed his usual pristine appearance to slip, Greg couldn’t help but enjoy the effect. No jacket, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, perfect curl haphazard on his forehead. He looked just as staggeringly attractive as Greg had imagined a ‘ruffled Mycroft’ would look, except that the circumstances for the ‘ruffling’ were not how Greg had imagined.  
The most troubling part was the wrinkle permanently etched between Mycroft’s eyebrows, deeper than Greg had ever seen it. He wanted to reach over and smooth it with his thumb, relax the muscle, take the look of constant worry off Mycroft’s face. His hand flexed with the want for movement. Mycroft looked up at Greg suddenly, from where he was leaning over some papers on the desk, and gave him a quick, perplexed smile.   
_‘Did he know what I was thinking? Could he tell? Was this the Holmes thing or an angel thing? Or, I suppose, the Holmes thing is an angel thing?’_ Greg smiled back self-consciously and focussed his attention on the blueprints for Bart’s Hospital that Molly had begrudgingly smuggled out of ‘Estates Management’. 

Something else that had caught Greg’s attention was the change in behaviour between Sherlock and John since the night of the ‘chat’. They never left each other’s side, not for a moment. They never touched but they moved in perfect unison, millimetres from each other at all times.   
Sherlock wanted a pen? It was passed to him before he even asked for it. John needed to sneeze? A handkerchief was offered before the sneeze had even left his nose. A dropped fork was caught before it hit the ground (without Sherlock even looking in the direction of the falling utensil), a scarf was fetched before Sherlock even realised that he was cold. Greg watched the two men; they were already like one person, soul-fasted or not. Linking Sherlock and John would free Sherlock from his ties with Moriarty, but Greg doubted if it would bring the two men any closer together than they already were.   
_‘It’s like watching a whatsit of starlings’_ , Greg thought.

“A murmuration”. 

The whisper at his ear immediately soothed the slight envy Greg had been feeling as he watched his friends.  
“Eh?” Greg whispered back. Mycroft looked over at John and Sherlock, who were listing the possible escape routes from Bart’s roof whilst making tea. Greg noted that the two were making each other’s tea, rather than their own, and hadn’t even seemed to notice.

“It’s rather wonderful to witness, isn’t it”? 

Greg gave in under the calmness that washed over him as he listened to Mycroft’s peerlessly beautiful voice.

“Yes, its… it feels…”   
“Familiar?” 

Greg gulped.

“Yes”   
“Good”. 

Greg looked up to catch Mycroft’s eye, but he was already moving away to join the others. Greg suddenly felt like the sun had gone in with the loss of Mycroft at his side. He felt immediately and horribly lonely. Cold, dark isolation was bearing down on him, even though the room was bright enough, the fire was lit and his companions were only a couple of metres away. Greg started to panic and he didn’t know why; his heart began to thump in his chest and his breath was hard to catch suddenly. He felt stranded, alone. He looked over at the others, at him, Greg needed to be next to him. Now. He jumped up from his seat and almost ran to the group at the tea table, feeling a profound relief at the renewed proximity to Mycroft that he couldn’t explain but that felt… comforting, reassuring. Necessary.   
_‘Is this what it’s like?_ He thought. ' _What Mycroft had spoken of, the connection that felt like pain when the two halves of a soul are at a distance? He’d said I wouldn’t feel it, being mortal, but then… what was that?’_  
He stole a glance at the angel at his side, who looked as if he were trying not to look back at him.   
_‘Can he feel it too?’_

Two hours later and the four were still hard at work. Sherlock, John and Greg were discussing options for getting Moriarty to buy into the whole ‘fake suicide’ thing - over sandwiches on the sofa (not for Sherlock naturally) - while Mycroft had taken himself off to a quiet corner of the room.

“Earth to Greg.” It was John. He was smiling, amusedly.  
“Huh? What?”  
Greg hadn’t been listening, his attention had been completely absorbed with something else. Mycroft had been sitting silently, eyes closed, head bowed, in conference with THEM, keeping THEM informed. Greg had watched the tightening of Mycroft’s lips, the tension moving across his jaw muscles, his eyebrows flickering as he spoke (without words) to his ‘superiors’. It was not an easy conversation, that much was obvious. As Mycroft came back to the room, discussion over for now, Greg found himself mesmerised by the sight of Mycroft lifting his hand to the back of his neck and rubbing the aching muscles at the base of his skull. Those long, elegant fingers pressing and circling the smooth, pale skin, easing the muscles down from his hairline. Greg swallowed as he watched those fingers slip below the line of Mycroft’s collar and massage skin that Greg couldn’t see but that he imagined was firm and freckled.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and repeated himself.

“I said ‘you will have to be in the maintenance room, with Mycroft and John, in case something goes wrong’. Yes?”  
“Yes. Course. Right.” 

Greg tried to refocus his mind on what Sherlock was saying, but his eyes kept darting back to that neck and those fingers and… ‘ _ohhh fuck…_ ’

“For god’s sake Gavin, you are utterly transparent. We are trying to work here, join us, won’t you?”

Greg looked guiltily over at John (‘ _was he that obvious?_ ’) to see John’s head tilt sympathetically while his face wore the unmistakable expression of ‘well…he’s got a point, mate’.   
_‘Shit._ ’ Greg looked at Mycroft without meaning to, but Mycroft wasn’t looking at him, he was turned away, looking out of the window, apparently not hearing a word of what Sherlock had said.   
_‘Thank Go...oodness.’_

It was approaching midnight on the fourth day of their voluntary incarceration and it was, unsurprisingly, Sherlock who cracked first. Having been silent for several hours he suddenly leapt off the antique leather chesterfield in the corner of the room as if he had been shot from a cannon. 

“I can’t stand it! We are leaving. I can’t look at your faces a minute longer, I am going stir-crazy. I need air!”  
“Air!” John scoffed. “Since when have you needed air? You’d never move from the sofa in 221b if not for your cases! I've seen you go a week in your dressing gown without so much as drawing the curtains, let alone opening a window.” 

Sherlock scowled.

“I need a change of scenery. To think. I need to be home. We are leaving, John. We can reconvene tomorrow at the flat. I can’t bear this dingy, ‘boarding school substitute for the elderly’ any longer.” 

John sighed, stretched and rose to his feet. 

“He's probably right. Could do with sleeping in my own bed for a bit.”

Mycroft nodded. 

“Very well. We can continue tomorrow at 221b. 8 am.” 

Sherlock and John left, their movements slow and their minds heavy. John raised his hand in goodbye to Greg, too tired to speak. Greg returned the motion from his chair and then they were gone. Greg didn’t move. Mycroft hadn't expected him too. He stirred from the window where he had watched the black cab carry Sherlock and John back to Baker Street and relocated to the huge leather sofa. He didn’t look at Greg, but Greg got the message anyway. He rose from his chair and settled himself on the sofa also, too tired to do anything but slouch, practically sitting on the bottom of his spine rather than his actual behind, arm over the back of the low sofa, leaving two cushions length between them.   
Mycroft slowly raised his eyes to Greg’s. It was the first time they had been properly alone since the park. Neither spoke for the longest time, Mycroft ostensibly enjoying the peace that an absence of Sherlock always brought, but Greg was quiet because he didn’t quite know how to start a conversation that was going to end up where he wanted it to. 

He had been just about coping with intensely fancying Mycroft from a distance, seeing him occasionally and having weeks to get over it before he had to do it again, but finding out that they were 'soul-fasted', that they had spent aeons together before Greg had cocked everything up by not keeping his mouth shut about his own stupid opinions, and then having to spend the last week in his company practically every moment, it was too much. Greg couldn’t contain it any longer. This was absolutely not the right time to be thinking about anything other than tricking a demon into returning to hell, but he couldn’t help it. 'Other' thoughts kept intruding. Whenever a pale, freckled forearm stretched across the blueprints in front of him, or - god forbid - he watched Mycroft’s tongue lick a comment from his lips that he was trying to keep in (usually in response to some sarcastic or hurtful remark of Sherlock’s) Greg found his attention wandering from the task at hand. He couldn’t focus. And he needed to focus. Sherlock John and Mycroft were depending on him. If he could maybe bring this to a head, he might be able to concentrate. But how?   
Mycroft was still looking at him as if listening. A horrible thought struck Greg with the force of a sledgehammer to his gut.

“Can you hear me, properly hear me?”

Mycroft blinked. His face was a blank canvas when he said

“I am sorry, did you speak?”  
“God, you can, can’t you! That was you avoiding the question, wasn’t it!   
“Gregory, I...”  
“You know what I am thinking, don’t you! Don’t you!”   
“In a manner of speaking.”  
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Shit Mycroft, you could have told me! You said, before, that it was only ‘vague impressions’. ‘Wraith-like glimmers’ you said!”   
“I was not lying when I said that, Gregory”.  
“Then…you didn’t know what I was just thinking?”  
“You seemed to want to… ask me something? I was watching you decide on how to approach the task, that is all.”  
“Swear it?”  
“You are questioning the word of an angel?”

Greg considered. This wasn’t going the way he had hoped. He’d got defensive, needed to get things back to a more friendly place if he was gonna do this at all. 

“Ok fine. I believe you. Change of subject. You know how your wings are white and mine were grey…”  
“Silver, Gregory, they were silver.”  
“Yeah, ok, silver...well…”  
“Yes?”  
“What about Sherlock’s? What colour are his?”   
“Why the interest?”  
“Just curious.” 

_‘Just trying to get you talking, sweetheart, get you relaxed before I do this.’_

“They most resembled those of a British blue kingfisher.”   
“Wow.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I know. Typical of him. Ostentatious. Most of us have the humility to stick to pastels, but not Sherlock.”  
“So we can choose the colour?”  
“No. They just appear as they will on the day of creation. It's still typical, however.”

Greg considered.

“…So my silver ones were thought of as a bit...showy? Crass?”

Mycroft shook his head and looked over Greg’s shoulder at something Greg couldn’t see as he said, softly

“Yours were the most exquisite in the entire kingdom, no one could look at them and say a word against them. Sherlock’s were thin, pointed, visually striking but not... inviting, not tactile. Yours were thick and soft and... comforting.”  
“Comforting?”

Mycroft’s eyes darted back to Greg’s, away from whatever it was he was seeing in his mind. 

“However... they were illustrative, perhaps, of your individuality, your lack of fear of being different, of independent thought. Your personality shone out of your feathers Gregory, like silver itself you were strong, bright, precious.”

Greg wished he had a drink so he could choke on it and give himself a few seconds to take in what Mycroft had just said. But he didn’t, and he didn’t want to leave those words hanging in the air, so he responded with the first thing he thought of (which, unfortunately, was the automatic, English, ‘take the piss’ approach to hearing anything personal or positive)

“Hells Mycroft, you can't just say things like that, so offhand like you are giving me directions to the tube station. Its... it's just not done, y’know. Give me a warning first at least.”  
_‘Shit. That was flippant. But he caught me off-guard, I didn’t mean to sound so dismissive.’_  
“My apologies, I have made you uncomfortable.”  
_‘Bloody hell Greg, you are gonna screw this conversation up again if you are not careful.’_  
“No, no you haven't. It's nice.”  
“What is?”  
“Hearing that....hearing you say that.”  
“Then what is the problem?”

Greg shifted on his seat. 

“Oh, I don’t know. We are English? We don’t talk like that to each other, especially not before we've downed a few first. I'm just...not used to it, that's all. Awkward. Too...”  
“Honest?”  
“Well, yeah. Much more comfy with skirting around the edges of something and hinting and then dropping the subject and never looking the person in the eye again. You know...the repressed English way.”

Greg grinned apologetically. Mycroft nodded, reflecting.

“You realise I am unable to be anything but honest, Gregory? I cannot lie. I am an angel.”

Now Greg couldn’t help but scoff

“Rubbish! Sherlock lies constantly.”  
“He is only a Guardian. I am an Archangel. Lying is not something Archangels are capable of.”  
“But you lie for a living surely, all that diplomacy and politics? One constant deception, isn't it?”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow.

“Not at all. You may not have noticed (as I am tremendously skilled at my job), but I do not lie. I omit, I evade if necessary, but never do I lie. That is why I do not share information if I can help it; I say nothing rather than speak untruths.   
If my honesty makes you uneasy, I will endeavour to say nothing in future.”

Mycroft got up from his seat and walked to the drinks cabinet, his back to Greg.

_‘Oh crap, I’ve screwed this up again. He’s upset with me. Look at him, for Mycroft that’s practically pouting. Apologise, quick, you idiot, or else give up on doing this at all tonight.’_

“No, Mycroft don’t do that. I'm sorry, you were saying something nice and I ruined it. Ignore me, it's my problem, not yours.”

Greg made an effort to look nonchalant and stretched himself back against the sofa, hands behind his head in a posture of calculated relaxation. Mycroft turned to look at him, and Greg gave him the warm, cheeky smile that (in his youth) had got him laid more times than he could count. He wiggled his bum further into the sofa cushion and said

“You crack on telling me how precious I am, I will try my best to cope.” 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, but he returned to the chesterfield with two glasses of Scotch. Handing one to Greg, he said

“How precious you were, Gregory, as an angel. As a human you are...”  
“Yes?”  
“Disquieting.”   
“Oh. Not so good.”   
“I didn’t say that.”

Greg took a sip of the oaky liquid and mumbled

“Didn’t have to.”

Mycroft sighed. 

“I merely meant that as an angel, I understood you. As a human you are...harder to read. Things get in the way of our connection.”  
“Meaning?”  
“It is of no matter.”  
“Ah, I see now. The evasion rather than the truth. I get it. Come on, spit it out. What gets in the way?”   
“Your humanity, Gregory.”  
“Specifics please, Mycroft.”  
“Your... chemistry Gregory.”  
“My what?”  
“Your... hormones for one.”  
“Oh, Jesus.”  
“Gregory please, every time you speak like that it is a mark against you, up there.”  
“Sorry. You mean...”  
“We do not need to discuss it.”  
“You know about… oh crap.” 

Greg put down his glass on the coffee table and put his head in his hands, hiding his scarlet face.

“It is not your fault Gregory, it is a confused signal, that is all. You know on some level that we are connected, you feel the pull, but your brain interprets that in a way you can understand. Our bond is lost in translation, that is all.”  
“Uh-huh.” 

Mycroft let Greg sit in silence with his face behind his hands for a few minutes until Greg spread his fingers slightly and peeked out at Mycroft. Greg couldn’t read his expression, and he had the feeling Mycroft was trying hard to keep it that way. Was that a good sign? Or a bad one? Greg decided he had waded too far in to stop now.

“…So, you know when I think about you... you can feel it?”  
“Must we talk about this?”  
“Now I know you can’t lie, yes, definitely.” 

Mycroft sighed and put his glass down also.

“Then yes. I do know. When you think of me it is like a summons, it cannot be ignored or denied, you fill my head, my soul, you are everywhere. That is how the fasting works, you call and I am unable to do anything but answer. It is unconditional acceptance of the other whenever one is required.”  
“The other night, after I left you at Sherlock’s...when I was at home, you knew I was... thinking about you?”  
“Yes.”  
“And was it a vague impression or...”  
“You were in communication with me Gregory, thinking of me, talking to me unconsciously, I could not ignore such a thing even if I wanted to. So no, it wasn’t a vague impression. You were very...vivid.”  
“Oh, my Go..odness. That's mortifying.”   
“You saw my wings for only the second time that evening, when we were with John. It is understandable that they would have entered your mind, that you would have needed to process what you saw.”   
“'Process?' Never heard it called that before. Shit, you really do know exactly what I was thinking about, don’t you? The wings and... the way you looked with them... and everything.”

Mycroft shifted on his seat. He licked his bottom lip and his next words came carefully

“I am... glad you liked my choice of suit that evening...”  
_‘Oh no, please no’_  
“… but my wings would not have impeded its removal (as you hypothesized), they exist in another place to the clothes around them.”

Greg was back behind his hands again.

“Oh fucking hell Mycroft, kill me now.”   
“Certainly not.”

Greg couldn’t be sure from his sanctuary behind his fingers, but Mycroft’s voice sounded… amused? 

“Then, I dunno, erase this conversation from my brain, do something, before I die of embarrassment.”   
“There is no need, Gregory. We are one soul. I know you as well as I know myself. We have no secrets.” 

Greg huffed, in spite of himself.

“Well you still have the upper hand then ‘cos I can't feel you like that, can I. ‘Cos I'm only mortal and you are a fuckin’ angel. It's a bit unfair. A bit...sneaky.”   
“It is not my intention to be intrusive, but I have no choice. We are linked, and as such, I have constant involuntary access to your thoughts, your motivations, your... dreams.”   
“Oh yeah? What happened to ‘my own private kingdom’ eh?”  
“Yes, well. you were uncomfortable, you had to take in a lot of information, I didn’t want to overload you.”  
“So you lied? I thought you couldn’t lie?”  
“I didn’t lie. I gave your mind what it could handle at the time and saved more for later. It was a kindness. An omission. Truth by degrees, if you will”.  
“Hmm. Not convinced. Sounds like semantics to me, but whatever."   
“I am not constantly aware of your every thought Gregory, I swear it. But when we are physically close, or you are thinking of me, the pull is too strong. I have no choice.”  
"Yeah, okay. We can stop talking about his now, I am about as humiliated as I can take.”  
“As you wish. But you mustn’t be uncomfortable, Gregory. Angels are not embarrassed by these things.”  
“These things?”  
“Sex. We are not discomfited by such mortal trifles, it is not something angels have to deal with.” 

Greg came out from behind his fingers. This could be an important discussion. A way to start talking about… stuff.

“What are you saying? Angels are what, asexual?”

Mycroft shrugged.

“In a manner of speaking. We do not have bodies, sex is neither possible nor is it thought of. It is an irrelevance. A mortal inconvenience, not something that exists in heaven.”

Greg made an ‘unimpressed’ face. 

“I gotta say heaven is sounding a bit rubbish. No food, no sex, everyone being terribly nice to each other...sounds like a religious weight loss support group.” 

Mycroft’s eyes were suddenly on Greg’s, intense and maybe… sad, Greg thought fleetingly.

“It is nothing of the sort, you were very content in heaven, fulfilled and supported and... loved. You were happy.”

Greg looked away first. He cleared his throat and his voice came quieter when he said

“Sounds nice. And you?”  
“Pardon?”

Greg didn’t look up, but shuffled on his seat, moving slightly closer to Mycroft. 

“Were you happy, up there?”

Mycroft was speaking quieter now as if he didn’t want to be overheard. _‘But by whom? There is only the two of us in the room.’_

“More than I thought possible.”

Greg shuffled again, fractionally closer, his heart had begun to beat more noticeably in his chest.

“And down here?”  
“... Earth is a very different environment, Gregory. It is not possible, in human form, to be happy in the same way.”

Greg licked his lips and turned to face Mycroft. He was a lot closer than he thought. He was mere centimetres from the angel. Had he moved all that way himself, or had Mycroft moved too? Greg swallowed.

“...but there are other ways to be happy down here, human ways...”  
“Yes, there are other... ‘methods’ to feel a fraction of the bliss of heaven.”

 _‘Wait, is…is Mycroft blushing?’_  
Greg allowed a sly tone to creep into his voice as he whispered

“Such as?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

 _‘Yep. Definitely blushing. Didn’t know Mycroft Holmes could blush. Well, that is bloody adorable.’_  
Greg draped his arm over the back of the sofa, resting behind Mycroft’s shoulder. He smiled slightly and caught Mycroft’s eye as he said

“Not sure I do...”

Mycroft turned his upper body further towards Greg’s in an exaggerated, exasperated movement. If Sherlock had done the same move, Greg would have called it a flounce.

“Fine. Physical intimacy is one way of approaching, fractionally, the bliss of the celestial. It is a way of reminding the soul what it is they are striving to attain, to return to.”

Greg nodded, taking this in. He decided just to go for broke.

“How do you know it is ‘fractionally’?”  
“I don’t follow.”  
_‘Yes, you do. You’re being deliberately obtuse, you gorgeous bastard’_  
“You said sex gives people a fraction of the bliss of heaven, right?”  
“Yes.”  
“How do you know it's only a fraction? Any first-hand experience?”

Mycroft’s hand reached up and smoothed his tie, self-consciously.

“Well really, of course not. I am an angel Gregory, I am not bothered by the needs of this physical form. As Sherlock says, it is merely transportation.” 

Mycroft’s voice had risen a little, he sounded almost nervous (if Mycroft could sound like that). Greg took the opportunity of trying to calm him, by gently patting him on the back. He then didn’t remove his hand but left it resting on Mycroft’s shoulder blade and the top of the sofa. He spoke quietly, inviting Mycroft to return to that soft, gentle tone they had been exchanging a moment ago.

“Yeah, I know you are an angel, but right now you do have a body, and you have to listen to what it needs...food, rest etc, right?”  
“I suppose so.”   
“So, does it tell you it needs other things?”  
“Gregory, I truly don’t see how this is relevant.”

 _‘Too late now, gorgeous, we’re having this discussion’_  
“Evasion. That's what you do when you don’t want to be honest, I know that now. So, does it tell you it needs other things?”  
“Other things?”  
“Evasion again. You know what I mean, Mycroft. Does your human body need things that your angel self didn’t?”

Mycroft drew a breath and met Greg’s eye challengingly. 

“If I have to answer this question then I must insist that you ask the question properly. You cannot evade asking if I cannot evade answering.”

 _‘Okay, sweetheart, you asked for it’_  
“Okay. Mycroft, in your human form, do you need sex? Do you want it?”   
“Not all humans need or want sex, you know.”

Greg laughed and he shook his head at the infuriating angel. And even though he now knew that Mycroft knew everything he thought, he let the words dance across his mind anyway

 _‘You slippery bastard, I adore you’_  
“Heaven’s sake Mycroft, answer the damn question.”  
“Fine. My human form does, on occasion, make requests to me of that nature.” 

Greg froze. He hadn’t genuinely expected Mycroft to answer, not directly. He looked into wide, grey eyes that seemed just as surprised by the revelation as Greg was. Greg swallowed. 

“That's a yes.”  
“As you say.”

Greg moved, the tiny gap between them on the sofa closed. Greg was fully facing Mycroft now, who, for his part, was still sitting facing forward but who had turned at the waist to face Greg also. Greg’s bent leg rested against Mycroft’s thigh and his hand now slid further along Mycroft’s back to his far side. He was so warm, Greg could feel the heat from his skin radiating through the silk of his waistcoat. His thumb made little circles on the bone of Mycroft’s shoulder blade, sliding smoothly against the material. 

“And... when does it make these requests of you?”  
“When?”  
“When, Mycroft.”

Mycroft ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth, stalling, choosing his words carefully.

“Gregory… I do not want to answer that question.”

 _‘No Myc, don’t back out now, we’re so nearly there. It’s alright, I swear it’ll be alright’_  
“I know you don’t. But you know everything I think about concerning this, it’s only fair that you give me a small amount of information in return, don’t you think?”

Greg slid his hand up over Mycroft’s shoulder and up to his collar. He ran his fingers slowly along the place where fabric met skin. Mycroft shivered. 

“I see that.”   
“So...”

Greg’s fingers glid upwards, stroking at the hair at the back of Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft inhaled quickly, audibly.

“Physical intimacy; ridiculous, inelegant and messy as the activity undoubtedly is, seems vastly more appealing when...”  
_‘So close Myc, please…’_  
“When?”  
“...when you are this close. When you look at me like you are doing now, and when your voice growls like that.”  
_‘Fuck, I want you so much’_

Greg lent forward slowly, giving Mycroft the opportunity to back away, and when he didn’t, Greg softly ran his nose along the taut line of Mycroft’s neck, up towards his ear, using that rumbling tone that he knew was working in his favour.

“Is that so?”

He nestled playfully behind Mycroft’s ear with his nose. _'God, you smell good’_

“Yes, that is so. May we… may we drop the subject now?”

Mycroft hadn’t moved, hadn’t moved an inch towards Greg while his space had been invaded, but that also meant he hadn’t moved away either. Greg gave Mycroft a sporting chance. He tried to think loudly…

_‘Myc. If you don’t move away in the next three seconds, I am going to put my mouth on your skin. 3.. 2.. 1..’_

Mycroft didn’t move. Had he heard? Did it work like that? Could he just ‘think’ and be heard like that? Greg had no idea. 

“We could drop the subject. We could do that... or...”

Greg’s mouth moved over the warm, pulsing vein on Mycroft’s neck and tentatively tasted the silky-smooth skin with the tip of his tongue. Mycroft’s hand flew to his mouth, but he couldn’t cover the sound that he made. Greg hummed in response.

_‘I wouldn’t bother trying to stifle it, darlin’, that’s not the last noise you’ll be making this evening, I promise you that.’_

Mycroft tried to speak, which he was suddenly finding surprisingly difficult. He could usually think about a thousand things at once, but right now, he could only focus on one thing, and there was no space left in his head for anything other than the feeling of Gregory’s mouth on his neck, his ear, his jaw. The drag of Gregory’s four-day stubble across his angelically soft skin was like nothing he had ever felt. He forced a tiny part of his head to make words

“Gr… Gregory... angels don’t do this.”

Greg had made his way along Mycroft’s jaw and was now millimetres from his mouth. He leant his head forward and rested his forehead against Mycroft’s. He was breathing heavier than he felt was decent, given the innocent nature of their activities thus far. He held Mycroft’s gaze as he moved to sit across Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft stifled a whine. Greg raised his hands to either side of Mycroft’s face.

“I'm not an angel... and you may be an angel up there, but down here you have a body, and it's making requests of you, isn't it?”

Mycroft shook his head slightly in Greg’s hands.

“At this moment it feels more like demands.”

Greg grinned and leant his head to the side slightly, and as he found Mycroft's mouth, he whispered against his lips

“What is it demanding?”

Mycroft shivered at the breath against his skin and Greg felt him give way, felt every muscle in Mycroft's body relax at the same moment, felt him fall into Greg’s embrace entirely.

“More.” 

***

A new pattern of behaviour emerged over the next few days; fourteen-hour days at 221b, Mycroft’s flat or the club, but at some point, John would drag Sherlock off, sometimes for food, sometimes sleep, leaving Greg and Mycroft alone for a brief spell every evening. Mycroft pretended it wasn’t happening and Greg, while surprised at John’s observational skills, was quietly grateful for his consideration.   
As soon as they were alone Mycroft would pretend he didn’t know what was about to happen, while Greg would come and settle himself as near to Mycroft as possible without being obvious. They would talk softly in the quiet room and Greg would slowly shuffle closer and closer while Mycroft again pretended it wasn’t happening. Finally, Greg would reach out and touch him gently on the arm, and Mycroft would look at him then, properly, and all thoughts of Moriarty were put aside for a short time.

It was Tuesday evening, and Greg had managed to ‘ruffle’ Mycroft very prettily on the chaise longue in Mycroft's study and was halfway through attempting to turn ‘ruffling’ into ‘ruining’ when Mycroft had once again tried to impress upon Greg the potential consequences for Greg’s immortal self if they kept up this ‘unangel-like’ behaviour. Greg responded in a muffled sort of voice from somewhere near Mycroft's navel.

“I don't care. Let them keep me out of heaven. You are heaven enough.”  
“You can’t say that Gregory, you don’t know.”  
“Shhhhh. They can’t keep me out of heaven for loving you.”   
“No, but maybe St Peter can keep you out for doing - ohhhh - that to an angel. He is not exactly progressionist when it comes to temptations of the flesh.”  
“Hee-hee. Bit of a puritanical old fuddy-duddy, is he?”  
“That is his role, yes. I am not sure that he would approve at all. I can see his face now.”

Mycroft made an exaggerated frown, lips pursed and eyebrows waggling furiously. With nostrils flaring, he grumbled a disapproving 'oh dear oh dear oh dear, this will never do'. Greg looked up and laughed to see such animation on Mycroft’s usually placid features, enjoying the freedom Mycroft was allowing in his expression. When was the last time anyone had seen Mycroft Holmes doing impressions? He couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

“It's fine, if he kicks off, I'll appeal. Who do I appeal to?”  
“Well, The Council of the Seven. The archangels.”  
“So... you?”  
“Yes, I suppose so.”  
“Huh. Better do what I can to get in your good books then, eh?”  
“Gregory – ohhhh – I think – ahhhh – ne… never mind.”

Greg smiled and whispered into the sensitive skin on Mycroft's hip

“I think we’ve reached the point where you can call me Greg, don't you?”  
“I have called you Gregory for a million years, I don’t think I could stop now, even if I wanted to. Gregory is your real name, Greg is just your skin name.”

Greg looked up, his nose scrunched in disgust.

“Ugh, my what?”

Mycroft chuckled. 

“My apologies, merely a nickname we use above for the short-term names of our earthbound angels.”   
“Sounds a bit ‘bodysnatcher-y’.”  
Mycroft conceded the point with a tip of his head, and Greg allowed the topic to drift from his mind as he returned to the important business of ruffling.

Later, as the pair were contentedly drinking tea at Mycroft's kitchen table, both in towelling dressing gowns and with bare feet, a folded, gilt-edged paper ‘popped’ into existence on the table between them. Greg jumped up in surprise, but Mycroft just sighed and looked at the paper as if it had personally offended him.

“What is that? Where did that…?”  
“It is a telegram from my superiors. Apparently, something has happened of which we need to be informed.”

Mycroft picked up the paper and unfolded it with his usual dexterous grace. He read in silence, and Greg noted the return of that crease between his eyebrows.   
_‘Dammit, I’d just got rid of that!’_

“Well? What is it?”

Mycroft slid the paper across the table for Greg to read.

**Archangel,**  
**A communication has been intercepted from Lucifer to Moriarty... as follows**

**“All that stands between us and London are two and a half souls.**  
**Two mortal deaths will remove all four entities from our path.**  
**Kill Worship. Grace will follow upward.**  
**Kill Service. Pain will come to you willingly.**  
**London will be ours within the month,**  
**a small but significant footnote in the rise of the new dominion.”**

Greg sat back down at the table. Mycroft looked so controlled, so calm, that Greg was sure this was very bad news indeed. He was hiding a lot behind that façade, Greg could tell, and it made him worry more than if Mycroft was panicking.

“Well, I believe Lucifer may be on to us, to a certain extent. We should inform Sherlock at once.”  
“Wait, wait. What does it mean? I get that the ‘four entities’ are us (you, me, John and Sherlock) but what's with the worship and service stuff?”  
“Merely codenames. Amusing to them I do not doubt, to reduce us to such one-dimensional caricatures. Do not let it concern you.” 

Greg looked back at the message.

“What? So who is who? Wait. ‘Pain will come to you willingly’- that's Sherlock. So ‘Service’ is John? Soldier, Doctor, he is Service, right?”  
“That would be my conclusion, yes.”

Mycroft watched Greg carefully as he continued decoding the message.

“So, you are obviously ‘Grace’ which makes me... ‘Worship’? What does that mean? I can kind of see their point with you and Sherlock and John maybe, but Worship? What's he trying to say?”   
“Do not take it literally Gregory, it is merely a nickname.”  
“Yeah right. ‘Cos ‘Ice Man’ wasn't at all a poke at you, was it Mycroft, eh? That was a name not at all intended to be a dig, was it? What does he mean by it, Mycroft? I know you know. Tell me.”

Mycroft nodded slowly.

“Very well. If you must know, I believe it is a reference to our previous lives, when we were all together, including James, in the celestial sphere.”  
“Yes?”  
“As I have already suggested we were... closer than most soul-fasted angels.”  
“Yes?”  
“And your 'attentiveness' may have been commented on, a few times, by other members of the heavenly host. The word ‘idolatry’ may have been bandied about occasionally, in a spirit of indulgent jest only. And in relation to us both, you understand, not just you.”

Greg tossed the paper across the desk in frustration.

“Oh for fuck's sake. The other angels said I... worshipped you?”   
“As I said, such affectionate teases were directed at us both, not just at you. Please do not be embarrassed, Gregory. This is what they want, to unbalance us, to change our focus. It is nothing. I promise you, merely words to wound, but only if we let them.”  
“Says ‘Grace’! Not so humiliating for you.” 

One side of Mycroft's mouth hitched slightly. 

“You seem more concerned about the ‘name-calling’ than the fact that the Lord of Hell has given instructions to have you killed.”  
“Let them fucking try, I am livid now.”  
“You are ridiculous, Gregory”  
“Shut it and pour the tea, ‘Grace’” 

Ten minutes of silent tea drinking and Greg had calmed down somewhat. They had so little time when they weren’t focussed on Moriarty, he didn’t want to waste these few precious minutes with sulking. He met Mycroft's eye and smirked.

“Idolatry, eh?”  
“Only as friendly banter, I assure you.”   
“Was it accurate?”  
“If we were truly idolatrous, THEY would have banished us aeons ago.”   
“So… what was it then?”  
“If there was any worship going on, it was I that worshipped you. I... gloried in you, Gregory. You were, and are, quite beyond beauty, beyond purity of spirit, beyond strength of heart and I...”  
“…you?”  
“…I really think you are letting this silly name-calling get to you far too much.” 

Greg shook his head, smiling.

“That wasn’t what you were going to say.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and poured himself some more tea, trying to fight the smirk that kept trying to slide across his lips.  
“No. It wasn’t.”

Greg waited, with his chin resting in his hand and a mischievous, expectant grin on his face, like he had all the time in the world to await Mycroft's finished sentence. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“You are infuriating. Fine. I was going to say, that I used to joke with The Almighty, that when THEY created the Aurora Borealis, dew-dripping cobwebs and shivelight, THEY were just practising perfection. Then THEY made you.”

Greg fought the urge to leap up and smother the man opposite him in kisses until his lips gave out. Instead, hard as it was, he stayed in his chair and swallowed.

“Soppy bugger under all that ‘stiff upper lip’ stuff, aren’t you?”

Mycroft sniffed and stirred his tea.

“Nothing of the kind. I was stating a fact.” 

Greg stilled Mycroft's tea stirring by placing his hand over Mycroft's and interlacing their fingers until Mycroft dropped the spoon. Pulling Mycroft’s arm towards him, Greg brushed his lips against the knuckles on the back of Mycroft's hand, one by one. Lifting his eyes to the man who had just said, as if it were nothing at all, that Greg was beautiful, was ‘pure of spirit’ and ‘strong of heart’ and, well, perfect, Greg (never the wordsmith) determined that actions could speak louder than words in this instance. He lowered the register of his voice to - what he now knew - was just the right amount of gravel, and growled

“Stop pretending you can't feel me thinking.”  
“I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”  
“I'm not. Not any more. Can you tell what I am thinking now?”  
“Yes.”  
“Good. So text Sherlock about the insulting note, then come back to bed”. 

***

Even though Mycroft had managed to dismiss the intercepted message to Moriarty as mere baiting, and had distracted Greg with discussions of nicknames and then, later, manipulated him back into the bedroom with (perfectly true) confessions of his adoration for the man (and where Greg had forgotten all about the note in five minutes flat) Mycroft was extremely worried. Never had Greg’s name come up before, Mycroft had successfully kept Greg under the radar for his entire mortal life. Involving Greg would not be tolerated and, regretful though it may be, Mycroft had only one weapon in his armoury that might work in negotiating Greg as ‘off-limits’.  
Mycroft materialised in the dingy underpass near Waterloo station. Brown water dribbled down the walls, and yellow lights flickered in the gloom. The floor was wet; littered with crisp packets, cigarette butts and the occasional used condom. 

“You rang?” drawled the soft, high voice as Moriarty appeared beside him, leaning up against the curved wall as if he hadn't even noticed the filthy environment. Mycroft nodded a greeting.

“Thank you for coming, James.”

Moriarty looked amused.

“S’been a long time since I've heard that name out loud.”

Moriarty considered for a moment, pushing off the wall and stepping close into Mycroft’s space. 

“I hear it in my head, though. I hear him calling, even after all this time. In his dreams. Calling for me.”

Mycroft stepped back apace. He schooled his expression into one of profound disinterest.

“Yes, how sweet. Now, James-“  
“DON’T call me that, Mycroft. Don’t upset me, I sense that you... want something from me? So best keep me on side, don’t you think?”   
“Fine. Misster Moriarty.” Mycroft hissed out the s in Mr.

“Yes, Misssster Holmes?”   
“I am aware that you are here in London at the behest of your... master”  
“Colleague.” Moriarty corrected him.  
“Goodness,” Mycroft smiled sardonically. “I wouldn’t let Lucifer hear you calling him that.”

Moriarty sang his response, examining his fingernails pointedly. 

“Get to the point, Mycroft”  
“But I am also aware of your 'other agenda'.”  
“Meaning?”  
“Meaning Sherlock.”

Moriarty faked a yawn and began to walk slowly around Mycroft as he spoke.

“Oh Mycroft, why are you even bothered? After all this time. I've never understood it. He is not even your actual brother. There are no blood ties in heaven, only soul ties... Sherlock isn’t yours. He isn’t anything to do with you.   
He is mine.” Moriarty grinned. “Mine.”

Moriarty stopped in front of Mycroft and made a face of mock horror. 

“Or are you jealous? Is that it? Has Mycroft been pining after my soul-fast? Pretty little Gregory not enough for the Archangel? You want my beautiful Sherlock too? Tut tut Angel.”

Mycroft sighed.

“Don’t be absurd James, it doesn’t work like that and you know it.”   
“DON’T CALL ME THAT!” 

Mycroft closed his eyes slowly against the noise and responded even more quietly and evenly than before.

“I just came to say...”  
“Yes? Spit it out, I am rather busy today. I have a fun little project this afternoon at the water treatment works. Y’know how easy it is to poison a whole city, Mycroft? All you need is one unhappy chappy in a yellow safety jacket and a tiny vial of something nasty.”   
“…to say that regardless of what you imagine you are doing with regard to Sherlock, you are to leave Gregory out of it.”

Moriarty put his head on one side and clasped his hands together in feigned delight.

“Awww sweet. Don’t let THEM hear you being all sentimental over a mortal Mycroft, you'll get into trouble.”

He sang this last again, like a seven-year-old in the playground. 

“I mean it, James. Leave Gregory out of this.”   
“Or?”

Moriarty came in close to Mycroft’s face and materialised some gum to chew obnoxiously loudly in his open grin.

“Or what, Archangel?” 

Mycroft considered for a moment then, in a flash, grabbed Moriarty by the back of the neck in a painfully tight grip, leaned in close to his ear and spat the words in a whisper

“Or I will hurt you in ways the Devil himself hasn't thought of”. 

He released Moriarty’s head and Moriarty stepped back, blinking and smiling with incredulity. 

“Well well, so Mycroft has grown a backbone, at last. Shame you didn’t have one when Sherlock needed you, eh? All those years ago? Where was this bravado then?”

Moriarty smoothed down his hair at the back of his head where Mycroft had held him and straightened his suit with a swish of hands down the lapels. 

“I mean it. I can do it, James. I can hurt you.”

Moriarty shrugged.

“Nothing can hurt me. Not anymore. There is nothing left to hurt.”  
“Oh, I think we both know that’s not true, James. There is Sherlock left. His pain is still your pain. I can hurt him, and that will hurt you.”

Moriarty stopped. They stared at each other. When they spoke again, their voices were hushed.

“You come for Gregory, if anything happens to him at all, there will be consequences. I swear it. I know how to hurt Sherlock.”  
“Oh, I know that Mycroft, I've seen you do it before. He still hasn't forgiven you y’know, I can feel his hatred of you.”  
“I am aware. It is immaterial.”   
“He came to you on bended knee, ‘actual’ bended knee. Begged you. And you did nothing. Spoke up for your own soul-fast but to hell – literally – with his.”   
“I am not here to discuss the past James, we are discussing the present, remember? The consequences for Sherlock if you involve yourself in any way with Gregory, his family, his work, anything.”

Moriarty considered for a while, neither one breaking eye contact. Eventually, he threw up his hands in surrender.

“Ok. Whatever. I will leave your ageing copper alone. And you...”  
“I will leave Sherlock alone.”  
Moriarty bowed sarcastically and walked away down the underpass. 

“Goodnight, Mycroft.” He sang without looking back “See you very soon, you can be sure of that.”

  
And he vanished into the dank air. Mycroft’s perfect posture failed just an inch or two. 

  
“And Mycroft…” The disembodied voice of Moriarty came echoing down the empty passageway.

  
“When I come for you Mycroft, I won't touch a hair on Gregory’s head. I promise. I will just make him watch what I do to you. And by the time I have finished, Gregory will have torn his own eyes out just to save himself from seeing what I have done to you. He will have screamed himself mute, Mycroft. He will be utterly broken, mark my words. But I won’t touch him.”

  
As the echoes of Moriarty’s vow died away, Mycroft stood for a moment, motionless. Then he brushed a speck of something off his jacket and stretched himself back up to his usual, straight posture.   
He congratulated himself on a job well done. Pride was very much frowned upon in an angel, but he really was very good at this.   
_He knows I can’t lie, so he had really thought I would hurt Sherlock when in actual fact, I had said nothing of the kind._  
_‘I CAN hurt him’ is the same as ‘I WILL hurt him’ to a mind like Moriarty’s._  
_Yes, words are quite as powerful as weapons when you know how to use them._

  
In the next moment, ‘pop’ he was gone. There was much to be done, but, first things first, he had a call to make to the water board.


	5. The Penalty for Fraternisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally uses his eyes, and Greg finds out something which changes everything.

The plan was set. Everything planned in minute detail. It had to work. A calm settled over the group as they realised they had done all they could to prepare. They were ready. It was Thursday, the plan was set for Saturday.  
The four men sat at the table in Mycroft's dining room, silently, each in their own heads.  
Sherlock steeled himself and dragged his eyes up towards his ‘brother’s’. Mycroft met his eye and waited for the inevitable barb. But none came. For the first time in who knows how long, Sherlock gave Mycroft a genuine -if closed mouth- smile. Mycroft stared for a moment, then nodded his head once in reply.   
John and Greg exchanged looks. Half exasperation, half indulgent pride at their taciturn angels. 

And ‘ _that's that_ ’ Greg thought. That's ' _thank you Mycroft, for doing so much to help me escape this torment and give me John forever' and 'of course, brother mine, I will always be there for you, to keep you safe and do whatever I can to ensure your happiness'_.   
But these were Holmeses, so a smile and a nod said it just as well.   
Soon after this sickening display of familial sentiment, John took Sherlock home. It was early, barely 7 pm but there was nothing more to be done. A good night’s sleep was what was needed now. Mycroft closed the door, knowing Greg wouldn’t be leaving yet, and turned automatically towards the sitting room to find Greg already settled in 'his corner' of the sofa. Greg felt almost happy. It was a good feeling, having done all you could, being prepared. Finally, Greg could free up more of his mind for more pleasurable pursuits. And he intended to. 

“What is it?” Mycroft asked cautiously, watching him.  
“Thought you could read my mind” Greg said playfully, patting the space next to him on the sofa. Mycroft looked at the spot and with a tiny smirk, sat down on the far edge of the sofa, leaving a good half metre between them. Greg grinned. 

“Tease.”  
  
Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

“I don’t know what you mean.”  
“Oh really? Divine being and all-round smarty-pants Mycroft Holmes 'doesn’t know what I mean'? Bollocks.”   
“Maybe if you were a little clearer…?”

Greg chuckled. 

“Okay, how’s this... you said I was a ‘Power’, right? Angel in charge of the movement of heavenly bodies, right?”  
“Yes Gregory, that was your role.”  
“Well then, Mycroft Holmes; Archangel, Minor Government Official and Secret Sex-Pot, get your heavenly body over here and let's see what I can do to get it moving.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes even as he laughed, openly and freely, tipping his head skyward as he did so. 

“And you wonder why you were expelled from the celestial sphere?”  
“Drop-kicked through the pearly gates you mean?”  
“Indeed.”  
“Hey. Just doing my job. Conscientious, me.”  
“So I am becoming aware. You always were a bad influence on my angelic nature, Gregory Lestrade. You were my silver-winged tempter...” 

Mycroft intoned this last as he slid infuriatingly slowly across the sofa towards Greg, who grinned like the cat who got the cream.

“Was I?”   
“Mmmm.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes with playful disapproval.

Greg pretended not to be desperate for the touch of Mycroft's hands on his skin as Mycroft came to a halt at his side and pushed him gently back into the arm of the sofa. The words left Greg’s lips before he had even registered them, if he had, he would have tried to keep them in, maybe.

“And now?

"Now?"

"What am I to you, now?”

Mycroft's head tilted to one side, his expression almost surprised, as if Greg had asked an absurd question. He smiled softly as he murmured

“You are Home, Gregory. That’s what you are to me. You are my home.” 

Greg didn’t have the words to reply, given all of eternity he doubted he would ever have the words, but that was okay because he knew that Mycroft could feel the effect of his words on Greg’s soul, their soul. Even without wings, he was sure, at this moment, that he could fly.   
Greg tried to steady himself, there was suddenly too much inside him and it was threatening to burst out of him in tears. He didn’t want to do that, not now, didn’t want to change the direction of their few precious hours together. He swallowed and breathed deeply. When he met Mycroft’s patient gaze with a sheepish grin, he looked into those grey eyes and saw them drop to watch Greg’s tongue run along the line of his lips.   
_‘Okay, we’re back on track, gorgeous.’_

“So what else do Powers' do, exactly?” Greg said conversationally as Mycroft positioned himself over Greg and, with a hand in his hair, began kissing him, slowly and frustratingly gently.  
“Well, now… a Power's role…”

Mycroft was kissing his cheek, his jaw, his neck, and Greg attempted to hide the fact that he could barely understand what was being said to him, that he was focussed entirely on the sound of the voice that made the words, the breath on his skin as Mycroft spoke, and on the word 'home'.

“…as are those of all angels…”

Mycroft was pulling aside the collar of Greg’s jumper to get access to more of his skin and Greg (and he had no idea why at this point) was still trying to pretend that he was interested in the conversation. His hands were aching to slip under the white shirt that was pressing down on him and feel the warm skin beneath.  
“Hmm?” he tried to make it sound like a question, but the noise he made came out more akin to a whimper. Mycroft was licking at his neck and gently nibbling at his collarbone, as he continued

“…is to do their duty through... acts of service.”  
  
The intonation on the word ‘service’ made its way through to Greg’s stuttering brain, and he tried to stop the grin sliding across his face.

“I see... service, eh?” 

He leant forward and whispered into Mycroft's ear

“That apply to archangels too?” 

Mycroft paused… and Greg felt him smile against his neck

“There is a hierarchy, Gregory…”  
“Oi!”

Greg gave him a playful smack on his behind, and Mycroft responded with a mischievous nip with his teeth.

“…but I am sure we can come to some arrangement should ‘the warrior of the cosmos’, my beautiful Detective Inspector, have something specific in mind?”

“Maybe later” Greg shivered, “first tell me more about... how I can be of service?”

***

The night before the plan was to be executed, before Sherlock was to meet Moriarty and trick him into going back to hell, the four men gathered at 221b. There was nothing more to be done, no one could bear to go over the plan again, but somehow, they still all gathered at 221b regardless. Arriving uninvited and showing no surprise at seeing the others also assembled. They sat in silence in the sitting room, each watching their tea go cold in their untouched cups.

Greg had rarely seen Sherlock look so jumpy. He was fidgeting in his chair and bouncing his leg anxiously. Mycroft was sitting as still as salt, as ever, but the muscles in his jaw where permanently tense and the haunted look in his eyes betrayed that he was going over in his mind all the ways this plan could go wrong, and the catastrophic consequences if it did. Not just for Sherlock and John, but for London and eventually, Earth.   
John’s phone rang.

“S’Harry. Wonder what she wants? ‘Scuse us.”

John took the phone into his bedroom and shut the door.

“I’ll make a fresh brew, shall I?” Greg suggested, purely for some occupation. But as he reached for the cups, he misjudged and sent one flying across the table, spilling cold tea on Sherlock’s shin and smashing the cup on the floor.  
  
Sherlock blasphemed severely.   
“Be careful, brother mine” came the quiet reproach.   
“Or what?” Sherlock spat. “What more could THEY possibly do to me?”  
“THEY could send you to hell.”

Sherlock gave an angry exhalation.

“Ha! That would be a kindness, you know that as well as I, Mycroft. THEY wouldn’t be so merciful. Better to leave me here, rotting from the inside...” 

Mycroft said nothing, just considered the angel so aptly nicknamed Pain.   
Sherlock scowled and looked off into the middle distance, his voice quiet as he continued

“…feeling him staining me with darkness every time he does something to get my attention.”

Still, Mycroft said nothing. Greg had the feeling Mycroft did not know what to say. Greg wished John were here, he felt like someone had to say something comforting, something hopeful. Pausing in his work collecting broken china from next to Sherlock's chair, he ventured

“Not long now mate, we’ll get him off you, out of you. John’ll make it better.” 

Sherlock looked even worse at these words. He glanced over at John’s closed door and seemed as close to ‘broken’ as Greg had ever seen him (and Greg had seen him ‘off his face’, filthy, emaciated and on the verge of doing something very unsavoury with a couple of dodgy-looking blokes to get hold of free drugs, on more than one occasion in their association)

“So I can darken his soul instead? The evil in my soul is indelible, he can’t remove what’s there already, and I will infect him, tarnish him. I will ruin him.” 

Greg put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed. 

“You won’t, you’ll see. Moriarty’s mark isn’t permanent, John’ll take it away, he will.” 

Sherlock continued to stare at John’s closed door. 

“He will hate me.”

Mycroft had apparently decided that this sort of conversation was not going to help anyone, and so he attempted to annoy Sherlock out of his mood (a distraction tactic that had worked many times over the years) before he spiralled down into a real ‘Sherlock depression’.

“Nonsense, Sherlock, don’t be so dramatic. Eat something. You are wallowing.”

Sherlock spun around on his chair, looking daggers at Mycroft. Greg heard John’s door open and thought this might be a good moment to busy himself in the kitchen with the good Doctor and leave the ‘brothers’ to it. As John appeared, Greg steered him off to the kitchen with a meaningful glance over his shoulder towards the sitting room. 

Sherlock peered at Mycroft. His attention had been on John, ‘the plan’ and little else for days, and he suddenly looked at Mycroft with more focus than he had in a while. His brain suddenly started firing off deductions left, right and centre as he stared at the Archangel. Mycroft braced himself. He saw it happen. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, then widened, his mouth opened fractionally and then snapped shut. The smirk that slid across Sherlock's face confirmed it. 

“Mycroft?”  
“Sherlock?”  
“Have you been... indulging?”  
“Do the wisecracks about baked goods never grow old, brother mine?”  
“That's not what I was referring to.” 

Sherlock gave a pointed look over Mycroft’s shoulder towards the kitchen, then met Mycroft’s eye again and raised an eyebrow.

“Oh please.”  
“Have you?”  
“Sherlock, be sensible.”  
“It seems to me that I am being vastly more sensible than you. You remember that I know what it means when you try not to answer a question.”   
“Enough Sherlock, you are...”  
“Correct. I am correct. And you, Mycroft, are playing with fire. And I don’t mean that figuratively.”

Mycroft made a stifled movement towards Sherlock, his voice suddenly lost its smooth indifference as he hissed 

“Mind your own business Sherlock, and you do not say a word to Gregory on this matter, understand?”   
“You don’t think he deserves to know?”

Greg heard the slightly raised voices and thought it best to wade back in and diffuse whatever this was. He caught Sherlock’s response as he entered the room.

“Know what?”

Sherlock turned his eyes towards Greg, mischief evident in his expression as he said nonchalantly 

“The penalty for fraternisation.”  
“Sherlock…”

The warning tone from Mycroft made Greg nervous. ' _What was this?'_

“What are you on about, Sherlock?”  
“What Mycroft is risking with this dalliance of yours.” 

The fact that Sherlock had figured out about his and Mycroft's changing relationship barely registered for the moment. The word ‘risking’ was all Greg cared about.

“Mycroft, what is he talking about?”  
“Nothing of any consequence. He is stirring, ignore him.”

Sherlock looked as if he was enjoying himself for the first time in a week. Greg decided that was not a good sign.

“Tell him Mycroft, I thought 'bringer of truth' was part of your job description?”

There was a crash and a curse from the kitchen.

“And I thought ‘guarding’ was part of yours. It appears your charge has had a mishap with hot tea. Go and ministrate, brother dear.”

Greg watched Sherlock leap off his chair and hotfoot it into the kitchen. Greg turned to Mycroft, who had schooled his features into an expression of complete disinterest.

“What's going on, Mycroft?”   
“Ignore him. He is attempting to distract himself from what is coming by causing trouble. It is Sherlock’s version of ‘displacement activity’.”

Greg wasn’t buying it. Sherlock had seemed too pleased for it to be nothing to worry about. 

“What did he mean...what you are risking? What penalty? What are you not telling me?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“Sherlock is... overreacting. Ignore him.”  
“Mycroft, you're evading again. What's going on? You are making me nervous.”

Mycroft rose from his chair and, approaching Greg, took him by the arm and escorted him to the far corner of the room, where there was no view from the kitchen. His voice was low and insistent as he said

“Sherlock is referring to an archaic rule that angels not 'engage' with mortals at a physical level. It is not relevant in our case.”

_'Engage with…oh. Oh shit.'_

Greg thought he knew the answer, but he asked the question anyway

“What happens to those that break that rule?”  
“It does not matter, it does not apply to us.”  
“What happens?”

Greg watched Mycroft run his tongue along his lips, trying to keep something from escaping his mouth. He waited. Eventually, Mycroft spoke

“Banishment.”

 _'Oh, God.'_  
“Bloody hell, is there anything they don’t banish your lot for?”   
“They run a tight ship, obey or leave. It is simple and effective.”  
“It’s draconian.”

Mycroft tightened his grip on Greg’s arm.

“Careful Gregory, walls have ears.”   
“How many angels have been caught with mortals then?”  
“Over the last millennia? Four.”  
“And how many are still angels?”  
“Of the four? None.”  
“Fuck Mycroft!”

Greg’s shout rang out across the flat. He snatched his arm from Mycroft's grasp and began to pace about the room. The fact that John had not come in to see what was happening told Greg that Sherlock thought this a discussion that needed to be had. He was keeping John away so they could talk. So this was serious. Greg was gesticulating wildly as he continued

“So that's that, then. Not being responsible for you being kicked out of heaven Mycroft, no way. You should have told me.”  
“Do not overreact Gregory. I said the rule does not apply to us.”   
“Why doesn’t it?”  
“It was designed to dissuade angels from... “

Greg didn’t have the patience to wait for Mycroft to decide on a suitably subtle phrase

“Shagging”  
“Thank you, Gregory, concise as always, from 'shagging' ordinary mortals. But you Gregory, you are different. We are soul-fast, there is no law about angels...”  
“Shagging...”  
“…their souls other half.”

Greg stopped pacing and stood in front of Mycroft with his arms folded. 

“Has it happened before?”   
“No. Our situation lacks precedent. But I am confident that the rule cannot be applied to our case.”  
“That's a loophole Mycroft, that doesn’t mean you are safe. You are an angel, I am not, you could get into serious shit for this.”  
“I believe the loophole is a defensible one. I will be fine.”   
“No, no way, this is not good Mycroft, you should have told me before I...”

Mycroft leant his head to one side.

“Manipulated a confession out of me and then started kissing my neck?”   
“Yeah, that. Why didn’t you tell me?”  
“Would you have stopped if I had?”  
“Of course I would, you feathered idiot!”

Mycroft gave a graceful gesture with his hand.

“And there is your answer.”  
“Well, we are stopping now.”  
“Gregory, I have explained, there is nothing to concern yourself with, I-“   
“Nope, Mycroft I mean it. I'm not risking you like this. End of discussion.”

Mycroft and Greg stared at each other. Greg adamant, Mycroft assessing. Neither moved. The moment seemed to stretch for an age, and who knows how long they would have continued like this, but then John walked in, tea-stained, eyebrows knitted in concern.

“Erm…everything okay?”

Greg broke Mycroft's eye contact and ran his fingers through his hair. He puffed out a deep breath.

“Yeah, fine mate. It’s nothing. You alright? No burns?”  
“Nope, it’s weird, one minute I was dropping boiling tea down myself, the next I am right as rain. Anyone would think I had a guardian angel or something” John laughed. Greg tried to smile.

Mycroft lent over and picked up his umbrella.

“Oi! Where are you going?” Greg asked more aggressively than he had meant to, but he was still reeling from the knowledge that he had been putting Mycroft in danger of getting kicked out of heaven as well. It was bad enough getting himself ousted, he wasn’t going to let that happen to Mycroft.   
Mycroft turned to Greg wearing the cool, steely expression that Greg had not seen on his face since, well, since before he had known about all this heaven and angels nonsense. It made him feel chilly, hollow.

“Is that your final word on the matter?”  
“Of course it is Mycroft, I can’t make you take a chance like that, not for me. You can’t ask me to endanger you like that.” 

Mycroft nodded his head, once. 

“As you wish. It is late, I have a busy schedule. If you will excuse me, Dr Watson, I will see you all tomorrow at St Bart’s. Good evening.”

Mycroft swished out of the room before Greg could even register how to react. He was gone. It wasn’t that he was just absent from the room, he had left Greg utterly alone. Greg felt like he was missing a vital organ, something he couldn’t function without. The room was suddenly as cold and dark and lonely as a tomb. Greg sank onto the sofa and put his head in his hands, hiding his face. John stood for a few moments, then sat down next to him. Neither spoke, but John sat with Greg for a long time, just being there, as Greg had done for John only a few nights before. 


	6. The Terror Of 'An Excess Of Joy'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Moriarty on the roof.  
> Here be canonical death (but not Sherlock's 'fake' one).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't tag this as MCD 'cos its not any of our four boys and its just what happens in the show. If you disagree with my lack of tagging, do let me know.

As soon as Greg saw him, he felt like he could breathe again. There he was, standing at the delivery entrance of St Bart’s, straight and tall, smoking a cigarette. Greg had always loved seeing Mycroft smoke. He thought about hanging back and just watching, but Mycroft turned towards him as soon as Greg had spotted him. Greg approached, not sure how to be after the night before. But as he got closer, the relief, the complete joy that filled him with every step towards this man made him forget everything. His anger, his fear, everything melted away. It was like wading into warm water after a lifetime encased in ice. It was glorious. He was glorious.  
He didn’t need to say anything, neither of them did. Words didn’t matter. Greg stood next to Mycroft and pulled a cigarette out of the packet he had in his coat pocket. His emergency packet. He lit it from Mycroft's cigarette, never taking his eyes off the man as he leant close to ignite the fag. As he leaned back and exhaled, he felt with his other hand until he found Mycroft's and just… linked his little finger around Mycroft's own (not even flinching internally at the silly, ‘school-girlishness’ of the action, just needing the contact). They stayed like that, cigarettes in one hand, pinkies held in the other, a subtle, childlike connection that couldn’t get them into trouble, but the touch was necessary.

As they finished their cigarettes in companionable silence, Greg looked up at Sherlock’s ‘brother’. 

“Huh.”  
“Yes?”  
“Well, it just occurred to me…”  
“Hmm?”  
“You and Sherlock, you are not brothers, never were, so what’s with all the ‘brother dear’ stuff?

Mycroft inhaled deeply on the last of his cigarette before he spoke.

“Ah. A fair question. In the ‘before-time’, even though we are not as you say, related, it was Sherlock who always called me brother, ‘big brother’ to be specific. We were great friends, Sherlock and I, we had much in common. It was a term of endearment (if you can believe such a thing between us). He… looked up to me, thought I was… more than I am. It was a joke, an affectionate joke.” 

Mycroft stubbed out his cigarette on the brick wall and flicked the end effortlessly into the nearby bin. 

“Now of course, I use the term to remind him what he and I once were to each other, and he uses it to remind me of what we are no longer.”  
“So… what happened, to change that?”

Mycroft considered before answering, chose his words with care.

“When the time came for Lucifer and his supporters to leave heaven, when James was to be taken away, Sherlock came to me and asked me to intervene, to save James (and himself) from this terrible fate. He thought that I could change the Almighty’s mind. I did not have that sort of power, but Sherlock thought I did. I did try, Gregory, I truly did, but THEY would not listen. I tried everything, I swear it.” 

Mycroft looked pleadingly into Gregory’s eyes, wanting to be believed. Greg nodded, 

“Course you did, Mycroft, I believe you. You always have done everything you can for Sherlock, I know that.”  
“In the end the Almighty said that if I said another word about sparing James, they would send you to hell also, that they should send you, and that I was lucky they had not already done so. I couldn’t risk you Gregory, I wouldn’t risk you because of what James had done. James had made a choice, you had not. Whether or not one believes James deserved his punishment is one thing, but you most certainly did not deserve hell. So I said no more. Sherlock has never forgiven me. He assumed I did not try, did not care enough to risk my position. It wasn’t true.”   
“And you didn’t correct him?”  
“Sherlock was utterly broken when James left, and I watched many angels wither and fail without their halves. For some reason, having someone to blame made Sherlock stronger, gave him a reason to keep going. His hatred of me gave him something to live for, if you like. I did not want to take that away from him. He needed it.”   
“So you just let him hate you, all this time? Let him make snide comments and disrupt your work and – yeah – bully you, just to make him feel better, when it wasn’t your fault? When you tried your best for him, as you always have done?”  
“It was necessary.”

Greg squeezed the little finger still wrapped around his own and shook his head. He was angry (angry at Sherlock for not believing Mycroft had tried, angry at Mycroft for allowing himself to be treated this way for so long) but even more he felt awe that Mycroft would volunteer for this prolonged, unjust treatment, just because it made Sherlock feel better, even if it was only marginally. It was truly selfless behaviour, it was… angelic.

“You are amazing, you know that?”

Mycroft was quick to reply.

“No. It was my fault. I should have kept a closer eye on him, on James, on Lucifer. If I had been more vigilant none of this need have happened at all. It is only right that I should be here for him, however that need may manifest.” 

Greg clutched Mycroft's finger hard and looked fiercely into his eyes, wanting to be understood.

“Mycroft, you are not the one to blame for any of this. Lucifer, James, they made their own choices, their decisions were not your responsibility. You can’t take the blame for everything, all the time. I won’t let you. Once we’ve got Sherlock sorted, you and I are starting a new era. The era of ‘Everyone’s mistakes are their own stupid fault and Mycroft Holmes might help them, but he isn’t taking the blame’, okay sweetheart? It can be our new mantra. I’ll get E.M.A.T.O.S.F. put on a mug for your office. I’m not letting you beat yourself up like this any longer, ok? Its been long enough.”  
  
Mycroft tried to smile and whispered

“I will miss you, so much.”

Greg grinned. 

“Have missed me, not ‘will miss me’. You’ve got no reason to miss me now, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Staying with you, gorgeous. Soul-fasted, remember?”

Mycroft nodded. 

“Of course, slip of the tongue. You are not going anywhere, Gregory, you are staying right here.”  
“Damn right.” 

Greg released his grip on Mycroft's finger and rubbed his hands together. 

“Shall we do this then? It’s nearly time?”

They climbed the stairs to the top of St Bart’s slowly, silently, until they reached the maintenance room.  
Mycroft opened the door, holding it open and gesturing for Greg to enter ahead of him. As Greg looked about him, he saw that Sherlock and John were already there, sitting on two old paint tins, facing each other, huddled up in a corner of the large, almost empty room.  
As Greg approached, Sherlock rose to meet them. Mycroft hung back, staring at Sherlock uncertainly. Greg was confused by Mycroft’s reaction until he was close enough to see into Sherlock’s eyes and then he knew exactly why. Sherlock's pupils were as small as pinpricks. Which meant… opiates. Heroin.

“Sherlock! You are as high as a kite! What the fuck?”

Sherlock scoffed, gesticulating a little too wildly for a sober person, trying to dismiss Greg’s concern.

“It’s fiiiine, Graham, don’t fuss. It’s all part of the plaaaaan. I’ve been high constantly for the last week, remember?”

“Not like this! Bloody hell Sherlock, you can barely stand!”

Greg turned to Mycroft, waving his hand in Sherlock’s direction in, what he hoped, was a ‘do something!’ sort of way.

Mycroft’s response was a little louder, a little more emotional than he usually allowed his voice to be.

“Sherlock, for goodness sake, we need you compos mentis. This cannot go wrong because you are…”

“Off your tits!” Greg interrupted, exasperated.

Sherlock looked at the two men in front of him, and then down at the one on the paint tin at his side. The one looking up at him with large, dark blue eyes, trusting, willing, accepting. He sighed. His voice was low, and, not looking up, he sounded exhausted when he spoke.

“I need it. If I don’t have this…I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll go. Despite all our work, despite John’s sacrifice, I’ll go, I know it. I hate it, but it’s a fact. Like this I can have resistance, it’s my shield. It dulls the connection. It’s not a choice, it’s a necessity.

“This wasn’t part of the plan, Sherlock-“ Mycroft began, but now John stood and gently but firmly gripped Mycroft’s arm.

“You can’t send him out there alone without any protection. He needs this, Mycroft.”

Mycroft looked at John. Stared at him, or through him, John couldn’t tell. But after a long beat, Mycroft sighed and nodded, raising his eyes to Sherlock’s once more.

“I suppose it is too late now, no time to get you sobered up. Are you ready?”

Sherlock raised his chin and as if in answer, took a deep breath and with a flick, turned up the collar of his coat.  
In spite of himself, John half smiled and shook his head.

Sherlock turned on his heel slowly to face John and opened his mouth to speak…

“Don’t.” John interrupted quietly.  
“Don’t. It’s ok. It’s fine. Just don’t listen to him. You are not his anymore, ok? You’re… “

John’s eyes flicked to Greg and Mycroft, who both looked away and tried to pretend ears were something only other people had.

“You’re… not his.”

A silence followed, and when Greg eventually looked up, Sherlock was moving slowly back from where he and John had been standing. Neither of them spoke but the air was thick with ‘something’. Something had happened, Greg was sure of that. That movement was a countermove, to move away, to straighten up after a forward motion, was it… a whispered word? A hug? Something more?

John hadn’t moved. Hadn’t taken his eyes off Sherlock. It was as if he were frozen to the spot. The look on his face was unmistakeably that of perfect trust and perfect love. Greg felt like he was intruding just by seeing that expression on John’s face.  
Sherlock turned from John. Mycroft silently went to the door leading to the roof and opened it. Greg patted Sherlock on the back as he passed by towards the door.

“Good luck, yeah? We’ll be here if you need us.”  
“Godspeed, brother mine.”

Sherlock went through the door and Mycroft closed it behind him. 

“Now, we wait.”  
“Is this gonna work?” Greg asked hesitantly into the quiet room.  
“It is the scenario with the greatest chance of success, I am sure.”

Greg looked at Mycroft searchingly.

“That didn’t answer my question.” 

Mycroft made the small, sad smile that Greg was now becoming familiar with.

“I think I liked it better when you didn’t know how I avoid untruths.”  
“On this occasion, so do I.”

After a few moments of silence, Mycroft turned slowly to John. He looked reluctant to speak, but he did.

“Prepare yourself, Dr Watson, the process will...hurt. More than you can possibly imagine.”

John tore his eyes away from where they were focussed on the closed door to the roof. He didn't seem like he had heard.

"What?"   
“Hurt?” Greg piped up. “What do you mean hurt? You never said anything about this being painful? He is being made an angel, why the hell would it bloody hurt?”

Mycroft nodded slowly. He tried to give a brief explanation of something beyond human comprehension.

“It won’t hurt, not in the literal sense, but for a mortal it will be physically intolerable and frightening in the extreme. I am sorry Dr Watson, but it is unavoidable.”  
“I don’t get it, what’s going to happen to him?”

Greg was almost shouting now. Mycroft looked pained at the sound, and he tried to explain again.

“An excess of joy.”

Mycroft said this solemnly, as if the words ‘excess of joy’ were the gravest of news rather than what it sounded like, what it should be.

“What are you on about, Mycroft? Spit it out, will you?”  
“You know the feeling of being tickled? That glow of pleasure and sensation? And how, if it continues, at some point you want it to stop, need it to stop? How you beg the tickler to cease because it is too much? The pleasure has become something else, something unpleasant? Imagine if it still continued and built and nothing you could do could stop the sensation increasing? The wonderful when overpowering, becomes terrible.  
You know the French phrase… le petit mort? The little death? Which, in modern parlance, has come to mean so much pleasure that you fear you may die? Imagine that feeling literally...being so overwhelmed that you honestly feel your body cannot cope with it and may just...fail? That your heart may stop, or your brain burst? Now imagine that a thousand times over. Humans are not meant to experience that level of sensation, they cannot comprehend it nor process it. It is inconceivable and therefore horrifying. It is pleasure past pleasure, past pain, to terror and loss of reason. The process does not hurt in the literal sense, but the feeling is excruciating, nonetheless.

John was silent for a few moments. Then he asked quietly

“Did Sherlock know about this?”  
“No, he didn’t. This has never been attempted before, and the price for such an exception is not a small one. I chose not to inform Sherlock of what he was asking of you. He would not have agreed if he had known.”

John looked scared but resolute.

“Nice, Mycroft, save this bit of information for the last moment. Brilliant.”  
“You still have the option to refuse, Sherlock will understand. He truly will. We all will. No one has ever had to endure such a thing before, it is not fair to ask you to. You have a choice. You don’t have to do this.”  
“Yes, I do.”

These words hung in the air as the three men waited behind the door, listening.

Sherlock stepped out onto the flat roof of St Bart’s. He blinked in the bright light. The sun was shining and the sky was blue, but the cold autumn wind so high above the ground stole any warmth that the sun may have given. Sherlock shivered, despite his coat, but that may not have had anything to do with the wind. He could see Moriarty sitting on the ledge and followed the sound of tinny music (the Bee Gees of all things) until he was close enough to speak to the fallen angel. But Moriarty spoke first before Sherlock could begin.

“Well…here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock. And our problem. The final problem.”

Moriarty gestured to the phone still playing the 1970s classic.

“Staying alive. It’s so boring, isn’t it? It’s just ‘staying’.”

The demon rose from his seat and slowly approached Sherlock, who stood his ground.

“Aren’t you fed up by now, my angel? All this fighting, all this trying, all this ‘life’. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Don’t you just want to come home? To me? After all this time, all our suffering? Don’t you just want to rest?”

Sherlock looked into Moriarty’s eyes, which were barely a metre from his own.

“Give up, you mean? Give in?”

Moriarty’s voice softened to little more than a whisper, as if he were sharing a secret.

“It’s not giving up, Sherlock… it’s letting go. You’ve been holding on to something you don’t believe in, resisting something you want, need, purely out of habit. You don’t have to fight me, Sherlock, you don’t have to fight yourself. I’m here to bring you home, take care of you, like I used to.”

Sherlock stiffened.

“That was a long time ago, James.”

Moriarty smiled.

“ ’James’. See? You remember. Inside your head, you are still mine.”

Sherlock fought to keep John from his thoughts at these words, ‘You are not his anymore, ok? You’re… not his’ he couldn’t risk Moriarty seeing it in his mind.  
He pushed John away and looked into Moriarty’s eyes. So familiar. So much like comfort, and peace and home. Everything he had done without for countless centuries. Total understanding and acceptance. His soul reflected back at him in those eyes. It would be so easy to just stop, to go, to have all that back again. He missed it. Missed him. More than ever now they were so close. He could feel their soul halves stretching out, reaching for each other across the metre of space between them, grasping the air, begging for contact.  
He could have his soul back, at last, all he had to do was reach out… there was no other way to have that feeling, except here, with him.  
Except… there was. One other pair of eyes, one pair in the whole of human history, that had looked at him with that same look of trust and love. One other place he felt like he belonged and was known and understood. One warm place in a cold universe. John Watson.  
Sherlock’s resolve returned at this thought, but he didn’t let it show. Moriarty sensed something, but their connection was still blurred by the drugs in Sherlocks system. His eyes narrowed, suspicious.

“Why can’t I feel you properly? What have you done? Are you high?”

Sherlock smiled slightly, reassuringly.

“Dutch courage that’s all. Being this close again, it’s overwhelming. I needed a clear head to talk to you, this helps. I can still feel you though, everywhere, filling every space in my head. I can feel…everything that happened to you, James, all that time ago, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

Moriarty shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter, once we are together again the pain will be gone, anything THEY throw at us will pale in comparison to our unification. THEY won’t be able to touch us again. We’ll be together and that’s all that matters.”  
“I never forgave THEM, for what THEY did to you, James. THEY didn’t need to do it, to banish you. You weren’t truly one of the rebellion, you were just… swayed. THEY could have let you stay. I hated THEM for what THEY did, still do.”  
“I know, I felt it. Your anger, your sorrow, it fed me, kept me strong, in hell. Kept me focussed. Gave me purpose. Swore I’d get you back. And now I have. Are you ready to come home, now? I’ve waited so long.”  
“Go to hell, you mean?”  
“It doesn’t matter where we’ll be. It’ll be heaven because we’ll be together again. That’s what you want isn’t it?”

Sherlock didn’t need to lie, the pull was too strong.

“Yes. It is.”

Moriarty smiled and clapped his hands together.

“Then ‘spit-spot’, eternity is waiting.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“What about the others? What will happen to them if I… when I come with you?”  
“Does it matter?”  
“Yes… No… Just tell me.”  
“I won’t have a reason to get your attention when we are one again. Won’t need to play these games. Humans are boring, Sherlock, I don’t do this for fun. I just needed you to take me seriously. When we are together in hell, I promise I will leave all the humans alone… until the War comes.”

Sherlock was suddenly all attention, his mind focussing even through the drugs.

“The war?”  
“Well, naturally, the Last War will require everyone to play their part. Lucifer will need us in the last days to rise up against THEM, finally. There will be human casualties, of course. But we needn’t worry about that yet, Sherlock. That’s ages away.”  
“How long?”  
“Oh… months I should say.”  
“I see.”

Moriarty grinned.

“But you didn’t really mean ALL of them, did you, Sherlock? You meant, what will happen to John. To Gregory. Mrs Hudson. Didn’t you?”  
“Yes.”  
“Come with me now and they will be left alone. I promise. Scouts honour.”

Moriarty made the salute of the boy scouts.

“And if I don’t?”

Moriarty dropped his hand, exasperated.

“All this caring Sherlock, I’m exhausted just feeling you do it, how can you keep it up? Just kill yourself, it’s a lot less effort. Go on. For me. Please?”

Sherlock pressed on, needing as much information as possible.

“What will happen to them if I don’t come with you now?”  
“OK. Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don’t. Everyone. Your only three friends in the world will die unless…”  
“I kill myself. I die in disgrace.”  
“Of course, that’s the point of this. if it’s not ‘in disgrace’ you’ll go back up there, but this way, ‘suicide’…you can come home with me. Not very fair on them is it? If you stay, they die and you’ll still come to me, eventually. You know it, I know it. It’s only a matter of time. Just give in, Sherlock. Come home.”

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. He exhaled slowly and loudly.

“You are right. It’s inevitable. I don’t want to be away from you anymore. I never did.”  
“I know.”  
“So, how shall we do this?”  
“I brought a gun of course, but your way is definitely sexier.”

Sherlock paused.

“My way?”

Moriarty looked indulgently at his soul-fast.

“You had already decided how you wanted to do this before you told me to meet you. You chose to meet at the top of the tall building, Sherlock. Poetic. I like it.”

The realisation hit Sherlock with a thud in his chest.

“You want me to jump?”

Moriarty shook his head slowly and leant forward to whisper in Sherlock’s ear.

“I want you to ‘Fall’.”

Sherlock waited a moment and then gave Moriarty a sly, slightly flirtatious smile.

“You first.”

Moriarty laughed, high pitched and delighted.

“Why would you even say that? You know I am not stupid. I can’t feel you properly, I can’t trust you like this. You go first.” Moriarty smiled wickedly. “I want to watch.”

Sherlock stepped forward into Moriarty’s space. He could feel the screaming in his soul at such closeness, and he let Moriarty sense it in him. Moriarty smiled smugly as Sherlock leaned in and whispered in his ear in return.

“James. You have felt me pine for you for millennia, you doubt me now? You know what I want. How long I have wanted it. You can trust me. Go first, be there when I fall… catch me.”

Moriarty pulled back, searching Sherlock’s eyes for something that he couldn’t quite feel through the drug-fuelled fog between them. He seemed to find what he was looking for. He nodded.

“I’ll catch you. Don’t be long, Sherlock, I’ve waited too long already. Remember, if you don’t follow, John, your detective, the old woman, POOF. Gone. Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims.”

Sherlock needed clarification, needed to know how this was going to play out.

“To be clear, you have instructed these gunmen to fire if I don’t jump?”  
“If you don’t die. Specifically, if our soul doesn’t disconnect from your body. I will feel it when it happens, and I will call them off at that moment only. I must do it in the few seconds after my physical death before I am returned to hell though, I will not be able to communicate with Earth from there. So you must be quick if you want to save them.”

“I understand. Stay and they die. Come and they live. And we… we are together again. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I won’t disappoint you. You’ve been patient, James. I won’t keep you waiting any longer. I’m sorry. I truly am. We can end this now, at last.”

The expression on Moriarty’s face was suddenly serene, the face of someone being shown kindness after a lifetime of cruelty.

“Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you. Bless you.”

And without another word, maintaining eye contact, Moriarty raised the gun, opened his mouth and fired.

The noise of the shot brought the others. Sherlock looked over to where Mycroft, Greg and John had burst through the door.

“Now. Quickly.” He said to Mycroft. He couldn’t look at John. Mycroft nodded and lowered his gaze to the floor, closed his eyes and sent the signal. A split-second later Sherlock collapsed, soundlessly, crumpled in a heap on the flat roof, next to the body of Moriarty. Mycroft opened his eyes.

“There. It is done. They are separated.”

Greg had seen a lot of dead bodies in his time, seen how a body without a life inside it looks lost and empty and unlike a person at all. Looking at Sherlock now, he had never seen anything look so lifeless. There was nothing in there, Sherlock was nothing more than a skin bag.  
John made to rush over, but Mycroft held him back with an outstretched arm, his eyes closed again, focussed.

“No Dr Watson, you mustn't touch him.”  
“What? Why not? For fuck's sake Mycroft, he needs help, get off me!”  
“It is time, stay exactly where you are. Sherlock will be alright if you do exactly as I say. A body without a soul is utterly bereft, and the heart can barely muster the will to beat. The body’s job is to house the soul, without a soul to shelter it will have no reason to function. We don’t have much time before the body will fail entirely and heaven are adamant THEY will not issue another. He needs you now Dr Watson, are you ready?”  
“Yes, goddammit, get on with it. Hurry!”

He was still struggling with the urge to run over and grab Sherlock, hold him, but he stayed where Mycroft held him.  
Mycroft looked up at Greg, and then reluctantly at John.

“Very well. I am sorry...”  
The three of them were stood in a triangle, facing each other but with some distance between them. The silence was absolute, Greg watching John, Mycroft’s eyes turned away in anticipation of what was coming.

John stood. Eyes shut. Braced. He wasn’t sure why he was bracing himself, he still couldn’t quite get his head around how this was going to feel really nice and yet, because of that, feel really awful. But the look on Mycroft’s face, dread written all over his usually placid features, made him believe that - weird as it sounded - this was not going to be a walk in the park.  
John straightened his back, raised his chin and balled his fists at his side. Ready.  
Army training kicked in, his senses picked up every sound around him, he could hear the short, nervous breaths from Greg's mouth, the lack of sound indicating that Mycroft was holding his breath, the crack of his own knuckles as he tightened his fists at his sides.  
Trying not to think about Sherlock still in a heap a few steps away, John was just about to open his mouth to say 'oh for god’s sake, hurry up' when he first noticed it.  
A creeping sensation up his spine, like warm, soft fingers playing his vertebrae as if they were piano keys. He shivered. The feeling spread, up the back of his neck, running silkily through his hair, and at the same time sliding around his middle and up through his chest. It felt like being safe and happy and warm and...loved. John sighed with relief and his eyebrows unknitted, his shoulders relaxed. He lent his head to the side slightly, stretching his neck muscles and returned his head to centre. The sensation grew as it spread until he felt like he was wrapped in a blanket of everything good in the world. His skin tingled with soft, rhythmic sensations, his blood pulsed warm, heavy and slow, he felt protected and calm and sleepy and like everything around him was just as it should be and every intake of air was healing him somehow.  
He sighed again and released his fists, flexing his fingers out straight and relaxing them. He didn’t open his eyes, and even though he knew what was coming, he couldn’t help but smile ever so slightly and lick his bottom lip. His eyelids fluttered but John kept them shut, not wanting to see Greg and Mycroft see him like this, to see what was coming reflected in their eyes. But at this moment he didn’t care, this was...nice. So bloody nice. His brain wasn’t thinking about finding the right word, it was entirely focussed on this feeling, radiating off every cell in his body. He couldn’t remember anything in his life that wasn’t perfect, comforting, reassuring and beautiful. He curled his toes as the feeling increased, searching out and filling every corner of him. Wonderful. He swayed on his feet as a wave of bliss moved through him.  
Greg reached out and grabbed his arm.

“You ok?”

John bit his lip and scrunched his eyes tighter shut. He nodded.

“Good” he managed to whisper. Greg released him as John moved his arm, bringing his hand up to cover his face. He grinned behind his fingers, and tipped his head back, opening his eyes to the sky and running his fingers down over his nose and chin and slowly down his neck.

“S-so good.”

Maybe it would be okay, maybe he could handle this.   
Suddenly, the feeling was changing, still filling every inch of him, but now it was more sensory, more insistent, more physical. Now not just warm and soft and happy and comforting, the sensations had twisted, the feelings now tumbling around inside him were urgent and hot, needful. His skin reacted as the realisation dawned of what he was feeling, goose-bumps chased each other down his arms and legs, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He made a gesture to rub his neck, calm the tickle, but his own touch on his skin was suddenly embarrassingly pleasing. An involuntary noise escaped his lips, of surprise and pleasure, before he quickly dropped his hand to his side.  
He was suddenly very aware that Greg and Mycroft were standing with him, watching him. But just as he was about to blush at what he now knew he was about to show to his mate and his best mates brother, a wave of utter bliss washed over him in a rush, coating every part of him, inside and out, and he couldn’t bring himself to care about his surroundings, his audience, anything at all. He felt drenched, heavy with sensation in every cell of his body, as if he were going to drown. His lungs, his throat, his mouth filled with wonderfully intense sensations. His body was so full of it, it was hard to breathe, and yet all he wanted at this moment was to fill his pockets with stones and wade deeper, let the current take him.  
His tongue kept skirting his lips and flicking outside his mouth. An unconscious, telling gesture of his response to this feeling. He realised it was... not subtle, but his ability to care about anything outside this sensation was less than a whisper now.  
He felt his breath catch as the waves kept coming, now more demanding and focussed and sharp in their insistence that he needed to make room for them. A Pavlovic response to the throbbing, breathless need that was now slamming through him, relentless and knowing, made sweat break out on his skin, skin that suddenly felt taut and full. His breathing was more like panting now, and he recognised the feeling of building pressure, even if it was happening on a far larger scale than he had ever imagined possible. It was still... recognisable. So big... but identifiable. He was too immersed in the writhing sensations to realise that the feeling was still intensifying, shifting from ‘just about coping’ to ‘too too much’.

Another wave. Then another. But each stayed with him, they didn’t fall away allowing room for the next, they stayed, stacking up, taking up too much space, he couldn’t keep a hold on what he was feeling, where and when. It was becoming a confused mass, writhing and fighting for his attention. There wasn’t enough room in his head, in his body for so much, it was disorienting, unsettling… frightening. He tried to concentrate on one sensation, but a thousand others jostled for dominance, he couldn’t think. His brain was stuttering, giving up trying to identify and organise his responses, it was too much, just let it happen and sort it out later, he couldn’t keep up.  
Another wave, he couldn’t possibly feel any more, he had nothing free to feel with, every bit of him was fully given over to the bliss of it. He felt like he was a balloon, being blown up past the point of comfort. It wasn’t safe, it wasn’t wise, but it was still so good he couldn’t even contemplate fighting it. What did it matter if it got too much, if his body couldn't take it, if he had an aneurysm or a heart attack or something, it didn’t matter, so long as this feeling didn’t stop. He'd deal with the consequences later, but for now, only this mattered.

More and more it built. _Ok, enough now._ It was too overwhelming, too much,

“Too...good” he breathed out, hoping Greg and Mycroft were still there, he couldn’t hear them anymore. He realised with barely a care that he couldn’t hear anything anymore. He opened his eyes, there was just blackness, he was blind. His senses were shutting down, whether to try and stem the overload of sensation or to focus his being entirely on the sensations inside him with no external distractions, he didn’t know. Didn’t care. He didn’t need sight or hearing to feel this, this incessant onslaught of pleasure. He was in an isolation chamber of his own body, and he felt himself going... he was getting lost in the feelings bombarding him over and over.  
It was like drowning in a vat of treacle. The treacle itself was wonderful; so warm, thick and comforting, it smelt like Christmas and tasted so sweet, but it was still drowning, it was still going to kill him.  
Still more. His legs gave way, and as he grabbed for the floor, holding himself up on hands and knees, he realised he couldn’t catch his breath. Breathing was a distraction, it was getting in the way. He wretched, his body trying to expel some of the intense sensations that had more than filled him now. He wanted to be sick, to scream, to cry, to do anything that might make a little room in his body, even if it was only the size of a tear or a sound, anything to make more room. If he couldn’t accommodate this, it would kill him.

A single thought fought its way through to his consciousness... if only he had a knife. If he had a knife, he could slice himself open, sternum to pelvis, deep and clean, that would release this intolerable pressure. Sure, that would be dangerous for most people, but he was a doctor. He could worry about getting to a hospital and getting sewn up again later, that was a problem for another time. A familiar problem, physical injury, he could deal with that. Now he just needed to make more room for this feeling. It seemed if not reasonable, then feasible, a possible solution. They’d give him a bollocking for being so foolish, but it would help surely. There would be an outlet for all this sensation, some way for it to escape. But he didn’t have a knife. He almost sobbed at the realisation.  
Still, the feeling built. How was he still alive? He was sure he should be dead by now. He couldn’t possibly have imagined that the human body could cope with this amount of sensation. But (a small, quiet voice whispered) maybe that would be ok, maybe you had to die to be an angel, maybe this was what happened and Mycroft just hadn't wanted to tell him. Dying would be ok, he could deal with that, if he was dead he couldn’t feel. The relief of that thought, to stop this, brought yet more bliss in its wake. His body, his mind, everything was throbbing, pulsating, trying to exist in more space than he had to give it.

Greg watched John, on his hands and knees, gasping and shaking and gritting his teeth. The sweat had soaked through his shirt, his head was hanging down, his hair dripping wet. Incoherent sounds were reverberating in his throat.  
Greg looked at Mycroft, who was staring at Greg, wide-eyed and white as a sheet, not bearing to look down at John.

“This is sick Mycroft, this is torture, actual torture. What has John ever done? What on earth justifies this?”

Mycroft’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Nothing, Gregory. Nothing 'on earth' justifies this.”

John groaned and his elbows buckled, his face hitting the floor and he rolled onto his side, not even aware of the movement.

“Fuck Mycroft, can’t we do anything?”  
“John can stop this at any point, he just has to say.”  
“If he can even speak, look at him!”

Greg knelt, wiped the sweat from John's eyes and spoke in his ear...

“John, mate, it's ok, we're here. We can stop this, do you want to stop? This is killing you John, say you want to stop. We'll find another way to help Sherlock, there will be other ways. Say stop John, you're killing yourself.”

Not even sure if John could understand him, he tried to pull John up. But John snatched his arm away with more force than Greg thought him capable at this moment. John curled himself up into a ball, on his side, on the floor and his every breath was a whimpered

“no no no no no no.”  
“Shit.”

Greg stood. His eyes met Mycroft’s again. Greg moved to stand next to Mycroft, both of them looking down at John, who wasn’t moving now, wasn’t making a sound, barely breathing, and Mycroft slipped his hand into Greg’s.  
They waited, kept watch. Guarded.

With a sudden movement that made Greg jump and clutch harder at Mycroft’s hand, John twisted on the ground and his whole body pushed off the floor, stomach first. Only his head and feet remained on the roof as he arched skywards, his mouth wide in a silent scream. He stayed that way for several seconds, and then just as suddenly, he fell back onto the bitumen tiles, a dead weight.

As his body hit the deck, another movement forced their eyes away from John. Sherlock convulsed, rasping in a breath and then hacking it out again. He sat bolt upright in an instant. He looked around, scrabbling to stand but not managing it, he used his hands to steady himself on the ground as his feet ran to John’s side. He looked wild, like an animal. He crashed down next to John.

“John? John? What have you done?”

Sherlock’s eyes met Mycroft’s with more venom in them than Greg had ever seen in them while Sherlock shared a soul with a demon.

“What have we done to him?”

Mycroft stared, unable to answer for a moment. He didn’t know exactly what had happened to John, was he alive? Was the process too much, had he...died? No. Sherlock was proof that it had worked, in some way.

“It worked Sherlock.” He eventually replied. “You are here. You are you. It must have worked.”

“But John!” Sherlock was cradling John’s head now, stroking his hair.

“Where’s John? Is he in there? Did they take him already? Why is he like this? WHAT DID YOU DO?”  
“Sherlock, you can answer that better than I. You are fasted now, feel for him, reach out for him. Find him.”

Sherlock looked down at John and closed his eyes. Greg thought that time had stopped while they stood over Sherlock and John, waiting. It seemed an age. Then, one side of Sherlock’s mouth slid into a closed smile and he exhaled deeply. John’s eyelids fluttered. He didn’t open them, but a hoarse sound left his lips

“You owe me, you git”.

Sherlock smiled more broadly, the other side of his mouth catching up to the half already smiling. John opened his eyes. He blinked a couple of times and looked up at them all, and then a blank look came over his face as if his brain were being wiped clean.

“What's going on? Why am I on the floor? Ow, what train hit me?”

No one spoke. The relief was palpable. John suddenly stiffened and he made an embarrassed cough in the back of his throat.

“Yeah alright Sherlock, if you could stop cradling my head and get off please, people will talk.”

John was back, he would not remember the last week, would not know he was now an angel, soul-fasted to Sherlock, but he was back, alive.


	7. The Petalled Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out what Mycroft agreed to, and Greg has to have a word.

Mycroft sat on the roof ledge, it was all over. Moriarty was returned to hell, Sherlock was released, John was safe, Greg was safe. They had done it. He dragged his hands over his face and stopped with his fingers covering his mouth. Now for his side of the bargain.

Sherlock and John were sitting on the floor; John had a red shock blanket around his shoulders, while Sherlock was holding two cups of – what looked like dishwater but must be tea - in plastic cups. Greg had been talking to the officers on the scene, arranging the removal of Moriarty’s body. He ambled over and sat next to Mycroft, joined his hands together, his elbows on his knees. They both stared at the floor and did not speak for a long time. Then, at last, Greg drew a breath and said tentatively

“Tell me.”

Mycroft did not make eye contact but shook his head slowly.

“It is of little consequence Gregory, go join the others.”  
“Tell me, Mycroft. I’m not going anywhere ‘til you do. Don’t make me use the eyebrow.”

Mycroft exhaled sharply and audibly in recognition of the attempt at humour, but he didn’t speak.

“I’m not kidding. I’m gonna be your own personal limpet ‘til you tell me what you did. What you offered THEM. What you agreed to.”

Mycroft slowly dragged his grey eyes up to find Greg’s. Greg saw the expression on Mycroft's face before he wiped it clean. _'He looks so sad. Why does he look so sad? We won, didn’t we?'_

“The magnitude of the request…separating a soul-link, making John an angel, it was…unparalleled. Simply asking such a thing was worthy of banishment. THEY were… very merciful in what THEY required in return.”   
“Which was?”

Mycroft looked into Greg’s trusting, warm brown eyes and took a deep breath. 

1\. I am to return to heaven. Permanently. No more Earth work, no more Sherlock, no more…you. 

“What? No!”

Mycroft looked pained by the sudden volume in Greg’s voice.

“Shhhhh Gregory, let me finish. 

2\. I am to be… demoted. Archangels are not supposed to ‘care’, my actions have made THEM suspect that I have let sentiment affect my judgement. I am not a ‘safe pair of hands’ apparently. I need ‘distance’ seemingly."

“But, but that’s not fair, THEY can’t do that, can THEY?”  
“Gregory, please, just listen.

3\. Sherlock must return to the fold, obey the rules, show… remorse for his ‘lapse’. Apologise."

“Well, that’s gonna go down like a ton of bricks when you tell him.”  
“Indeed.”

Mycroft took another deep breath.

"4. You… Gregory, you are to have your memory cleansed again. Like John, you will remember nothing of this entire affair and can go back to your life as it was before." 

“Before that evening at your office? Before we were…friends?”   
“Yes. You will go back to not being aware of our connection. You will be free from all that entails for the rest of your life.”  
“But I don’t want that… Mycroft I don’t want that.”   
“What one wants and what is the case are sometimes not… “  
“No, don’t give me that fatalistic, determinist crap. There must be something we can do? Who do I have to talk to? Let me talk to THEM, make THEM see sense.”  
“It is pointless.”   
“No Mycroft, I’m serious, I’m not having this. Bollocks to it. It’s not happening.” 

Mycroft continued as if he couldn’t even hear him

"5. In gratitude for your dutiful assistance, you will be given ‘a petalled path’."

“A what?”  
“An easy ride, a charmed life, if you will. All your endeavours will succeed, your loved ones will flourish, and nothing dark will ever touch you, as long as you live. You will never suffer illness, loneliness or heartache ever again Gregory. I have seen to it.”   
“Mycroft, I don’t want that. I don’t want that."

Greg put a hand hesitantly upon Mycroft's sleeve. 

“I want… this.”

Mycroft lowered a hand over Greg’s, just for a moment, then removed it and smoothed the wrinkle between his eyebrows, his eyes closed. His voice came so quietly Greg could barely hear it

“It has been decided. It is done.”

Silence fell again between the two men. Finally, Greg murmured

“THEY know how to hurt you two, don’t THEY… loss of position for you, and making Sherlock apologise.” 

Mycroft swallowed but he didn’t look at Greg as he whispered

“That is not how THEY hurt me. It is knowing you will forget (forget again I should say), that is what hurts the most.” 

Greg turned to Mycroft, but before he could speak, Mycroft quickly continued, artificially upbeat as he gestured with a nod of his head towards the other two soul-fasted angels on the rooftop

“Besides, nothing can hurt Sherlock now, look at him.” Greg looked over at the pair on the floor. John looked bemused, exhausted and almost drunk. Sherlock was looking at John as if stunned. He looked like a little boy; wide-eyed, innocent and carefree, taking in everything around him as if for the first time. Seeing the world through the eyes of John’s soul. His face held a perpetual smile and his eyes danced as he watched John, listened to him complaining about the cold wind and the appalling tea and why no one was telling him why he is on a roof. Sherlock looked at peace. Finally, he looked like what he was, he looked… like an angel. 

***

Mycroft was in his office, clearing it, readying himself for his departure. THEY had given him 48hrs to ‘put his affairs in order’ before he was to be ‘recalled’. As he delicately placed his glass globe in a packing box, he heard a kerfuffle outside. There were mumbled voices and footsteps coming fast and heavy towards his door, the familiar click-clack of Anthea’s heels dashing to intercept the incomer. Mycroft recognised the rumbling estuary accent and pressed the button under his desk that opened his door. He hadn’t seen Gregory since the day before on the roof, and Mycroft had been resisting the urge to contact him. A clean break might be best. He had even instructed Anthea not to allow the DI ingress under any circumstances. But hearing him, all this resolve melted in an instant. Mycroft came around the front of his desk, tugging at the bottom of his waistcoat with nervous fingers.  
The first person to fall through the door was his assistant, apologising and trying to explain that “the Detective Inspector said it was urgent, wouldn’t wait for an appointment, I am so sorry for the intrusion, Sir” closely followed by Gregory himself.

“Thank you, Anthea, it is alright, you may go.”

As she closed the door, Mycroft ran his eyes over his angel for the last time. He looked… agitated? No, excited? His eyes were bright and his cheeks pink from exertion. Had he been running? Before Mycroft could speak, Greg blurted out, slightly breathlessly 

“You don’t have to leave, Mycroft.”   
“What?”  
“You don’t have to go. I squared it. You can stay, it’s all sorted.”

Greg grinned and flumped down into the chair opposite Mycroft's desk. The chair he had sat in, what seemed like a lifetime ago, when all this had started. He looked very pleased with himself as he looked up into Mycroft’s face and began to explain…

“Spoke to someone called the er, the, the Megaphone? Nah, that’s not it, it sounds like the name of a Transformer?” 

Mycroft reached out behind him for the desktop and lowered himself slowly onto the edge. He held up a hand to stop Greg’s flow for a moment

“You spoke to The Metatron? The voice of God?”

Greg snapped his fingers and grinned again.

“That’s it, Metatron.”   
“How on earth did you know how to contact the Metatron?”   
“Sherlock a ‘course. He is quite amenable to favours at the moment, funnily enough.” 

Mycroft’s hand rubbed heavily over his eyebrows

“Good grief, what have you done, Gregory?”  
“Just had a quiet word, that’s all. Explained things. Made an alternative suggestion.”   
“What suggestion? Please tell me you haven’t done something stupid.”  
“I swapped your leaving.”  
“Swapped?”  
“Yep.”  
“For what did you swap it?”  
“My easy ride.”

_'Not that. Anything but that.'_ The one thing that Mycroft had been holding onto, that Greg would be taken care of in his absence, had been snatched away and Mycroft found he wanted to sink to the floor and never get up again. He didn’t, of course, but his voice was small and pleading when he said

“No Gregory, tell me you didn’t do this. That was my solace, that I could leave you safe and happy.” 

Greg stood, slowly, and walked the metre or so to stand in front of Mycroft as he whispered

“Don’t want that. I don’t want a fairy-tale existence, I want a real one, warts ‘n’ all. But with you on the same planet.” 

Mycroft shook his head gently, his eyes searching out Greg’s imploringly

“But you won’t remember.”  
“I won’t remember all the angel stuff, but I’ll remember you. The old you, the one I knew. You’ll still be here to boss me around and glare at me in your fantastic suits. That’ll do. Rather that than a ‘petalled path’ any day.” 

Mycroft raised his chin and took a deep breath.

“I won’t allow it.”

Greg shone at him with full beam and shrugged.

“Tough. The Big Cheese said that if THEY have to listen to one more word on the subject, THEY will rescind the rainbow and flood the entire, ungrateful country. Seems England has been pissing off a lot of folks upstairs recently. THEY are quite happy to drown us all and be done with it if this subject is ever brought up again. ‘Case closed’ I am afraid.”  
  
Mycroft opened his mouth but no words came. He tried again

“I can’t… why did you do that?”

Greg moved to sit next to Mycroft on the edge of his imposing desk, resting his hands over the wooden lip so his little finger was just brushing Mycroft's own, he said 

“Just… next time you call me up to do something for you, ask me nicely, yeah? Maybe (if you are feeling accommodating) give me a smile, ask me how I am? Maybe we can be friends, now that we won’t have to worry about Sherlock quite so much.”

Mycroft gave a mirthless laugh

“Gregory, you won’t remember, you’ll be suspicious, or think I have lost my marbles.”

Greg conceded the point with a laugh of his own,

“Yeah, probably, at first. But convince me. Maybe we can get back to… knowing each other. A bit. It’d be nice.”  
“It would.”

Greg placed his hand over Mycroft's on the desk  
“Promise me you will try?”  
“I will try, Gregory.”  
“Good. Try hard, ok? Don’t want to go back to being an ignorant sod if you aren’t gonna make the effort to let me know you. I’m trusting you with this Mycroft, don’t stay away from me this time, I mean it. Or when I die and I hear all about this again, I will be really pissed off with you.” 

Mycroft smiled, small and sad but a smile nonetheless 

“You have made your point, Gregory. I will not keep you at a distance. You have my word.”

“Good. The Mega, um Meta…”  
“Metatron”  
“Yeah, that, said when I wake up tomorrow my memory will have been wiped. So this is it. I won’t know you in the morning, not really, not like this.” 

Greg looked down at his shoes, rubbing the tips together as he mumbled

“I’ll miss it.”  
“It?”  
“Being in love with you. Waking up in love with you. Walking to work in love with you. Filling out H72a forms in love with you. Doing my laundry in love with you. Falling asleep in love with you. I’ll miss it.”

Mycroft also watched Greg’s shoes as he shook his head

“You… won’t miss it. You won’t remember. I will miss it, continue to miss it, I mean. As I have done for thousands of years.” 

Greg spun around and threw his arms around Mycroft's neck, burying his head in the warm skin and soft fabric. Mycroft's arms were around him in an instant and they hung there, clutching each other like drowning men.

“I am trusting you, ok? Bring me back to you, make me see you” Greg murmured into Mycroft's skin. He felt the nodded response against his head, felt the soft lips against his hair, his ear, his cheek. Greg raised his head

“The Metatron also said ‘absolutely no hanky-panky or he would tell St Peter to put me on the ‘naughty list’”

Mycroft snorted derisively and caught Greg’s mouth in a kiss.

“To hell with Peter, he wouldn’t dare cross me. I know the real reason he had to change his name from Simon.”

Greg’s laughter could be heard from Anthea’s desk, and she smiled as she started unpacking her desk and put her headphones on, just in case. 

***

  
Three days later, Greg was sheltering under an awning in a less than salubrious part of town, watching the SOCOs scuttle about, gathering evidence before the pouring rain washed it all away. Another day, another body. Greg couldn’t shift the malaise he had felt recently; he felt unsettled, edgy and he didn’t know why (like that feeling when you arrive at the airport and you just know you have left something vital behind, but you can’t for the life of you remember what it is). He ground his teeth together and sipped at his tepid coffee. His phone rang. He made an exasperated noise at the back of his throat. ' _What now? '_

“Detective Inspector, it is Mycroft Holmes.”

Greg was conflicted between being annoyed that Mycroft was obviously calling to get him to do something for him and being pleased to hear the man’s voice. ' _I really must do something about this damnable crush, it’s pathetic'_. In spite of his pleasure at hearing those dulcet tones, Greg was too cold, too wet and too - ' _well, yeah, too miserable'_ – to sound anything other than fed up when he responded

“Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”  
“I have a small task I need you to fulfil, Detective Inspector.”   
_‘Great. ‘cos apparently I don’t have enough to do.’_  
“Oh yeah? What?”  
“Nothing too taxing. A case I want you to present to my brother, pretend you can’t fathom it.“  
 _‘Oh fuck this. Life’s too short.’_  
“No.”  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“Not unless you ask me properly. In person. Using my name.”   
“I don’t follow, Detective.”  
“Bored with this Mycroft, if you want my help, ask me properly, like a person, not a servant. It’s insulting.”

Greg could hear the sigh even with the rain and the activity all around him.

“Gregory-“  
“You do know my name then?”   
“I know your name, of course I know your name.”  
“Good. Then you can use it from here on in, can’t you?”  
“If you insist.”  
“I do.”  
“Very well.”  
“Glad we got that sorted. So… are you coming to me or am I coming to you?”  
“I er…”  
“You are gonna ask me in person when you need my help from here on, yes?”  
“I will send a car.”   
“OK then. See you soon Mycroft.”   
“…Gregory?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Thank you… for your assistance in this matter. I do appreciate it.”

The softer, more human tone in Mycroft's voice instantly sucked all the fight out of Greg. That voice was like a warm blanket and Greg sunk into the sound.

“S’okay. I didn’t mean to snap, just having a bad few days. Dunno why. Didn’t mean to take it out on you.”  
“Monachopsis. It is understandable. It will fade.”  
“Mona-what?"  
“Nothing. My apologies, I was thinking aloud. Would it help if I were to ensure that the car came with a towel, a change of clothes and a hot flask of quality coffee? Maybe some sustenance with dubious nutritional value?”

Greg groaned and couldn’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about it.

“Oh, that would be brilliant. Thanks, Mycroft, you are an angel-“ _‘Shit! What are you saying? Don't call Mycroft Holmes an angel! God, you are such an idiot!’_ -“I mean, um, I mean… ha! I meant thanks, that’s all”.

Greg listened to the gentle chuckles on the end of the phone line as Mycroft hung up, the sound soothing something in him that had been aching, without him even being aware of it.

********** The End*********

PS Many years later, when Greg heard about all this again, the day he got his wings back, he spent countless time cocooned in a ball of intertwined white and silver feathers, together at last. It had been worth the wait. 

PPS Many, many years later, when John heard about all this again, the day he got his wings, he discovered that they were gold. The brightest, most lustrous, shimmering gold that could be imagined. No angel had ever had golden wings before, but no angel had ever started out mortal and faced what John had faced.   
It was the happiest day of Sherlock's long, long life.


End file.
